Let me set the scene: I’m 10 years old growing up in a small town (like, think really, really small… then smaller) and am watching Jennifer’s Body with my older sister. At the time, this film was the talk of the town at my sister’s high school and all of her cooler, mature-er friends were permeating the air with the same question: “Have you seen Jennifer’s Body, yet?”
After realising that it, in fact, is not a porno, my sister decides hey, this is probably appropriate for a 10-year-old, right? I am immediately enthralled and captivated by Megan Fox – so much that I start saying what she says, take notes on how she dresses, how she wears her hair, that amazing heart-themed outfit and that hideous prom dress. When they mention that she takes laxatives, I start sourcing laxatives. So on and so forth. You get the picture.
I rewatch this movie until every cell in my body knows the lines by heart. It plays behind my eyelids when I drift off and I see Jennifer Check swimming across the lake, steaming and ready to seduce another teen boy into her death trap jaws. And through it all, I am wishing upon every star that someday, I can be just like her. Glowy and smiley and clever and confident. Magnetic.
At 22, I rewatch this film to reminisce on an old obsession and I realise something – I had a massive crush on Jennifer. Of course I did. I was absolutely obsessed with her. This was my Shego. My Barbie Mermaidia. I just didn’t know how to recognise it through my lens of internalised biphobia/homophobia.
And so, I started thinking – how many times in my young life have I accepted desire to be simply idolisation? How many girls did I plaster on my walls with the desperate hope to somehow morph into them through osmosis? I had them all watch over me as I slept, my beautiful and polished guardian angels, because it was easier than considering the possibility that maybe I actually just wanted to kiss them. I wanted to become them in the hopes that maybe one day I could understand them. In the hopes that maybe someone could want me the way that I secretly wanted them.
In the words of poet Blythe Baird:
“If I made them into my role model, there was no way they could be my crush.”
Blythe Baird, ‘How to Become a Disney Channel Original Star’
My lack of understanding and acceptance of my own sexual identity led to an unhealthy fixation on the identities of those I was attracted to. Unfortunately, this desire mistaken for idolisation easily slipped into unhealthy and damaging behaviours.
A review of current literature on eating disorders in the queer community (it should be noted that these studies were targeted at the LGBT population) shows that individuals who identify as queer are at higher risk of developing eating disorders or disordered eating behaviours than their heterosexual counterparts. Major risk factors that contributed to engaging in disordered eating behaviours included low sexual identity development and perceived stigma.
With a focus on individuals that identified as bisexual, the review found, “Antibisexual discrimination and internalized biphobia appeared to be associated with internalization of sociocultural standards of attractiveness, which increased body surveillance, sexual objectification, and body shame, which then predicted disordered eating behaviors among both men and women.”
Forced heteronormativity has made it seem more acceptable for a person (especially a young person) to obsess and mimic an individual of the same gender rather than desire them. Why do I feel more comfortable describing my girl-crushes as style inspirations? Why was I so outwardly proud of my folder of Dylan O’Brien GIFs, while hiding my Victoria Justice GIFs like some weird and freaky porn? Transforming this foreign desire into obsession and self-destructive behaviours just made more sense to me. I was googling Ariana Grande’s exercise routines, scrolling through ShopYourTV.com; thinking that if I dressed exactly like Spencer Hastings from Pretty Little Liars, I would finally be able to see her on my screen and not yearn for a single thing. I convinced myself that my obsession stemmed from a desire to become them rather than just a desire for them.
I’d like to make a note that this situation can often be reversed for those who identify as gender queer or experience gender dysphoria. I have spoken to friends who grew up thinking they had a crush on a person, only to realise later that this yearning was actually gender envy.
Of course, it’s instinctual to mirror those we are attracted to and want to be around. But it’s worth asking yourself the question: do I want to become them, or do I want to be with them?
References:
Parker, L.L., Harriger, J.A. Eating disorders and disordered eating behaviors in the LGBT population: a review of the literature. J Eat Disord8, 51 (2020). https://doi.org/10.1186/s40337-020-00327-y
Pussay Poppins is the politically charged, Lady Gaga loving, nipaluna/Hobart based drag artist behind many of Hobart’s favourite queer events. The self-described “queen of self-defecating humour”, runs Altar’s ‘Judy’s’- a queer safe space, dance night which hosts a range of local DJs and drag performances curated by Miss Poppins. Poppins herself has stayed booked and busy after her state win in the prestigious Dragnation competition, participating in a wide range of drag related events that span from community fundraising efforts, festivals, drag bingos, to pride rallies. Outside of her work as Tasmania’s drag sweetheart, she has a day job in health. Togatus’ Chelsea Menzie got the chance to chat with Pussay to talk about Tasmanian drag, Gaga’s influence, RuPaul’s Drag Race, identity, the politics of drag and her upcoming projects.
Chelsea: Hi Pussay, thanks so much for your time.
Pussay: Of course, welcome to my studio!
We are chatting over zoom and Pussay proceeds to show me a collection of beautiful, if not chaotic, wigs and drag costumes. There’s even a signature Lady Gaga red, latex, look which she says she sewed in 8 hours after the release of the music video for 911. I remark to her that she has her priorities in order.
Was there a Catalyst for you starting drag? Who are your drag inspirations?
P: It’s so stereotypical but Gaga was such a big inspiration. I’ve been a massive fan since The Fame era and I’ve been a Gaga fan longer than I’ve been a drag performer. I love the theatrical components and it kind of combined everything that I loved: pop music, technology and art in a mix. I was really obsessed. I really liked costume design and things that weren’t specifically drag, lots of gaga inspired bits and pieces.
I’m Lebanese and Catholic, I come from a really Catholic family. Being effeminate, being homosexual, being generally very queer is not always something that is liked much. I kind of used drag as an outlet to put my effeminate energy and all of those aspects I didn’t like about myself. Being creative and very artistic, liking makeup, that whole different side to myself. Over time Pussay and Andrew merged together. Now it’s really indifferentiable who is what. It made me kind of realise and accept myself, to show that there is a lot of strength behind both aspects, the masculine and the feminine.
My drag inspirations are people like Bob the Drag Queen, Trixie Mattel and Katya. The standard kind of Ru girls, which are very funny and comedic rather than just typical pageantry. When I grew up in Sydney all I would see would be very beautiful drag queens and I really saw them at a distance because I never could see myself fitting in with them. I was never typically a very pretty queen, or a glamourous person, I saw myself as a bit of an artsy clown. As I started getting more exposure to drag and seeing more things like RuPaul’s Drag Race and visiting other areas like Melbourne seeing very artistic drag it influenced me. Things that were cerebral, creative, comedy, politically charged performance aspects brought together. Sasha Velour was another amazing queen that I saw from Drag Race. There’s also local people that very much inspire me too. As well as Australian drag queens like Lazy Susan, who does spoken word recitals of things like ‘Tik Tok’ by Kesha. She also did a birth of drag piece that had multiple reveals, taking off outfits for it to be the same thing underneath.
How old were you when you started drag, was it ever something you saw becoming normalised in Tasmania?
I would say I started doing drag kind of in my mid 20s in my Gaga phase, although it wasn’t Pussay it was sort of starting where that was going. I grew up in rural New South Wales in a small town and it was very much like we didn’t talk about that. Pussay was really born nine or ten years ago doing different characters, but I settled on Pussay sixish years ago when I moved to Hobart.
I never thought that it would be as normalised or as accepted as it is right now. Even coming down here and going to gay clubs in the earlier days I always would wonder if I was safe, especially ten or so years ago. There was a real worry about if it was safe to be queer. Going to queer friendly venues and bars here and in Launceston where I first moved was crazy. As the years started moving on and I started doing more and doing more political and volunteer work as well with groups like Diversity Launceston, TasPride, Working It Out, linking with MONA and DarkMOFO it felt like spreading that love and spreading acceptance.
The big thing I found was when I went to the North West in Ulverstone was shock. Two years ago there I did Ulverstone’s first Pride Festival and Ulverstone historically was voted one of the most homophobic towns in Australia in the 80s and 90s…they had anti-gay rallies in the street. Twenty years later I rocked up cross-dressing, reading books to kids in the middle of the day in Ulverstone, it was very surreal. I didn’t realise the impact until I stood back away from it. It was like “this is a big thing and I never thought I would see the day”. Now we’re doing sold out shows in Ulverstone, Burnie and Devonport every three months. I’m going up to Launnie next weekend to perform and I can’t believe it. Tasmania keeps changing as a state and its incredible.
There is queer people everywhere. It’s not like it’s just in Hobart. Again Ulverstone was incredible, there were hundreds of people… the whole park was full. Lines of people telling me that I’m amazing. I was like “I did my makeup in the car on the way up from Campbell Town! What are you on about?”. I hit every pothole between Oatlands and Ulverstone! The community was so much bigger than expected especially in that younger demographic. They can’t come to a club because they’re not 18. So it was very overwhelming being there and seeing the community. It gave me more of a fire to do more for the community and reach out to all the different parts around the state because accessibility is obviously a very big thing…It’s hard for people to find a safe space. It made me want to give people the space and the permission to be themselves. It makes young people think that if I can be open as a queer person in the community then they can be too. [Queer] Kids that do the things they do at the age that they do is just unbelievable to me, when I was 13 I would’ve never of thought of it. I never even thought I’d find acceptance. So it’s really important. It’s about building up that community to continue fighting that battle, because there is a battle still to be fought.
If you don’t mind answering, how do you identify outside of drag?
It’s very interesting because it’s something that I’ve always not been one hundred per cent sure where I sit with it. Now that pronouns are evolving its different… when I was younger I thought I was a ‘he’ but doing drag sometimes confuses you a bit. You get a lot of praise and attention and positive reinforcement from people when you are portraying yourself as a different gender (or however you express yourself artistically in a drag sense). So I’m finding myself I’m very much a gender fluid kind of person. I find myself in a work setting as male but I feel that I can float in between the feminine and masculine, not really in a typical binary of anything. Predominately he/him, but I will answer to any pronouns really.
(All images supplied by Pussay Poppins)
Has Pussay helped you in your ‘regular life’ outside of being a drag queen?
She has really just given me so much confidence in Andrew’s life. It’s given me the permission. My therapist asked me, “how can you be so confident and so unapologetic as Pussay, but can’t talk to people outside of drag as Andrew?”. Where do I go from one extreme to the other where I do the most outrageous things on stage but I can’t talk to some boy? There really isn’t any difference. With that shift I actually utilised all of Pussay’s assertiveness, confidence and glamorousness. Using her charm and ability to hold a conversation made me think if Pussay can do it then why can’t Andrew do it? I’m the hand up… the puppet in Pussay. There’s a fisting joke there somewhere.
You’re Tasmania’s Dragnation sweetheart. What’s it like competing in drag competitions?
I hate it! Hate it! It’s interesting because it’s such a different thing. My day job is in health which is very clinical and facts based. Doing drag is this thing where everyone has an interpretation and its very subjective. I was never good at things like English because I was very science minded where everything is one or the other. My brain goes into a big cycle doing a competition where I’m thinking, “what are you doing?”, “you’re going to embarrass yourself”. My anxiety can really get the better of me. I don’t go great in competitions because I doubt myself a lot. I’m very lucky that I have a support network in my partner and my friends that I can bounce ideas off. But if I were in a setting like RuPaul’s Drag Race it would be so much more challenging. Knowing me if I ever did another competition it would be hard for my mindset. It’s hard to always put an objective measure on a subjective piece. I love judging a competition! But participating is complete anxiety. Even thinking about it I’m like shaking haha!
I’m so sorry to bring back traumatic memories
Please! The amount of stuff that I do on stage… this is not even trauma! I do think it’s good to normalise anxiety and be very open with it. I think that I’m very approachable and real with what I do even as much as Pussay is a character, being open and honest about my mental health. Everyone thinks that it looks easy, and the reality is that I’ve taken eight gastrostoppers because I want to shit myself every time I walk on stage. It is hard. Especially doing a competition. People think that they can’t do things because they’re anxious but I like to help people and say well these are my strategies. It’s important to be open. So no trauma. Well there is trauma but not from that!
In our queer history a lot of drag artists have often been people that make space for political change. Do you see your drag as political and do you think given its history political awareness is a responsibility in drag?
Yes! Basically Pussay was rebranded around six years ago because I wanted to bring politics and comedy onto the stage. As a performer and someone who can hold someone’s attention for a six minute period I think it’s important. Yes I’m deepthroating a dildo on stage, but let’s also talk about the upcoming election and why it’s important! From day dot I’ve been doing acts where I dress up as Bronwyn Bishop and getting money thrown at me from a bag that says ‘taxpayers dollars’. It’s something that is so important for our community, especially younger people who see politics as something that’s a big step away from them that they may not be able to digest. It’s my responsibility to say “hey this politician is saying that trans people can be excluded from sport”, or “this person wants to overturn same sex marriage” and it affects you. I think anyone who has a platform should use it responsibly. This is my community, the people who are paying to buy a ticket, how can I give back to them? It’s supporting the community because they’re the ones that are supporting me. I need to fight for you because you’re fighting for me.
How do you make sense of your drag then considering the growing political attacks on the LGBT community?
Well my drag doesn’t really make sense at the best of times, thank you! But it just means that we have to be more visible and more brash. Just like Ulverstone it started off as one thing in the park where people probably thought “who’s this poofter in a dress in the park?” but we need to normalise it and get a lot of the stigma out of the way for the general community. Even being in drag can just be political. It can change people’s views on gender norms and let them see a different experience. I like doing queer things with non queer people, or allies in the community, to show that there is a different world they probably haven’t experienced. From a political standpoint too it’s showing people that have voted conservative in the past that even if things like the plebiscite didn’t affect them that actually we have a story. This is my life that is affected by this. Conversion therapy laws at the moment are another one where it may not feel like to people outside that it’s something they need to worry about, but it is something that other people need to worry about. It’s something I worry about every day for myself and for my kids, my community. Being an entertainer it’s what my role is, changing people’s perspective.
Sometimes our lives as queer people can often look different to heterosexual people’s. We don’t always have traditional timelines for ‘success’, families or jobs, this can be confusing to navigate as we grow up. Was that something you faced in your own life?
Definitely growing up in a small rural town having very Catholic and Lebanese influence in my parents it was very much that many things I saw around me was not what I felt in myself. It was very hard. I didn’t come out until I was maybe 19, even then that was very much a push from my family. Growing up in a small town too it felt like it was everything. I never really saw anything that was me. The only things I could kind of see was like Carson Kressley or Bob Downe on TV. Effeminate people on TV that I could kind of see myself in, but it was so removed because it was entertainment. It wasn’t like a person in front of me who was openly queer that I could relate to or have a discussion with. Watching Queer as Folk was another thing that just scared me beyond anything, I was like “Is this what its like? I’m going to get an STI and I’m going to get bashed every time I leave the house”. Sadly it is sometimes a reality of things that happen to our community but those kinds of representation were very overexaggerated and scary. Meeting so many queer people now unfortunately it is like I know somebody who has been attacked in Hobart, someone who has been kicked out of their family when they came out. I think it’s good for cis, straight people to know that we do have a different life from them in some ways. It’s also good to talk about as queer people that we do have experiences that mirror each other. When we have that visibility broadly too it does give people the chance to stop and consider another perspective that they may not have. People often think “you chose to be gay, you chose to live like this” but they don’t realise that I still get freaked out holding my partner’s hand in public and I’m 33. It’s ridiculous and people don’t always understand.
I’ve done a few different queer proms and events for young people, and I’m hoping to do another underaged version of Judy’s soon, to support queer youth, seeing those events where people are 14 and they’re openly gay is wild. I’ve met older gay people who didn’t come out until their 50s. They had so much of their life lost to heteronormative standards. Even for me, there was just 18 years of me living a heteronormative lifestyle and I missed out on having a typical first relationship at school, going to watch a movie together, I never had any of that. A lot of people don’t make that connection that we have to hide ourselves, how badly it can potentially impact someone.
What’s your go-to lip sync song?
That’s like choosing my favourite child! It’s hard, if I had a go to performance it would be a Lady Gaga song. Although I like to mix my tracks a lot so it’s hard to just say one, but it would probably be ‘Rain on Me’ if I had to. I do love doing my ‘Dirty Talk’ mix, which is like cut with overtly sexual cut scenes, it’s just stupid. I like starting off with a sexy or clubby kind of song and then just being so stupid. I have a Muppet vulva with googly eyes that I lip sync with to a jazz version of ‘My Neck my Back’, I also have a giant vulva suit that and I sometimes poke my head out of the Urethra. Another favourite is the yaassification of Pinocchio. I have a lot, I’ve been doing it for too long! I’ve wasted my life!
Where can we see you next?
You can’t get rid of me unfortunately. My website is www.pussaypoppins.com, I update it weekly with all of the events I’m doing. You’ll also see me at my club Judy’s, @judystasmania on Instagram. It’s a monthly queer drag and dance night at Altar. I also do regular bingos and trivia at Society Salamanca and Harlequin Lenah Valley. You can find my Instagram and Facebook on @pussaypoppins.
Thank you for your time!
Thank you! I really liked the questions they made me think about my life…
Hopefully in a good way not an existential way?
I kind of like it being existential rather than the typical drag queen questions… I want to tell people in the community about how I got to this point because anyone can do anything they want with their life. It’s yours to make it.
Martha Summers is the butch icon, architect and artist responsible for the lesbian internet’s new favourite invention, the ‘TOOLbelt’. Part strap on harness, part tool belt, the handmade leather, functional-art-piece designed by Martha is available to order on her online store. Togatus’ Chelsea Menzie got the chance to hear from Martha about her latest project, lesbian stereotypes and butch identity.
Chelsea: Hi Martha! You mentioned on your Instagram that you’ve been working on your latest project TOOLbelt for at least nine months, what was that process like for you and how did inspiration strike you?
Martha: Hello! So the reason it took so long was actually just that I haven’t had much free time recently. I started work on it last September and then I just got really busy and had to put it in a box for about 6 months. I have my day job as an architect, and was also working on some of my own queer architectural projects outside of work too. Last winter I was designing a LGBTQ+ Community Centre in London, and at the start of this year I designed an exhibition of LGBTQ+ archival ephemera called Out & About, which was in the Barbican Centre, also in London. Then I got Covid, and I also have endometriosis so spend a lot of time in bed suffering with that so it was a long time before I was able to pick it back up out of the box and finish it!
What was quite nice about that though was that when I started working on the piece, I was really feeling quite low, and detached from my queerness. After a year and a half of the pandemic, I was feeling very negatively about myself in that- because being locked down I think so many of us were only ever experiencing the hard parts of being queer, and none of the collective joy or desire. I had the idea for the piece in 2018, which was a very different time for me. I’d only been out for two years and my life was sort of a constant mess but also filled with exploration and gigantic feelings and also lots of joy. I think I originally genuinely thought of it as like a practical item where you could have a number of different dildo sizes to hand to switch in and out! Haha. Which I still might make that version to be honest.. Anyway, when I actually started making it at the end of 2021, I almost felt like a bit of a fraud, like does this work even reflect my sense of self anymore…and who even is “myself” anymore. I also got diagnosed with autism during the pandemic so I was also wrangling with that and a lot of re-understanding of myself at the time.
But then I had this like 6 months of working on these great queer community projects- the community centre, and the exhibition and I reconnected with my queer self in really positive ways- and in new ways! And I’d been doing a lot more hands on construction kind of stuff too, I went on a women’s carpentry course in Wales in May. So when I picked the project back up to finish it it felt like something had shifted and I felt a different connection to the work I was making.
The TOOLbelt, all images supplied by Martha Summers
I like that you called the TOOLbelt more than a “three dimensional joke” can you speak a little bit about the dichotomy between the humour and the functionality of the piece?
Well basically it started as a sort of joke idea. I think I wrote a tweet about it that got like 7 likes. I just thought, that’s a funny, very lesbian combination, and I couldn’t believe it hadn’t been done before, even as like an illustration or something. And that’s partly why I made it, I just sort of felt like, this really just SHOULD exist.
But I think as I worked on it, and also since it’s been out in the world and I’ve seen what it means to people I’ve reflected on the deeper meanings that it has. I think first off it’s a piece of work that speaks to a group of people who are basically never marketed to or catered for by mass media or market. Butch dykes of the kind that like this piece, are I think generally seen as just too degenerate by heteronormative society to really ever see themselves reflected in TV shows, mainstream art…anything like that etc. And I think making something that is sexual and highlights the sexiness of gender nonconforming people. Speaking from my own experience and gender- being a woman who looks like I do, and loves tools and making stuff etc has really resonated with a lot of people who rarely get to resonate with anything. I don’t think it’s quite the same thing as “representation” per se, I think it’s more like a sort of collective identifying with one another, like a sort of global dyke nod. I feel that especially because the posts on twitter and Instagram haven’t really left queer online circles I haven’t received any homophobic messaging or anything like that. I think that’s also because the work speaks to a really specific subset of people in our community. What’s nice about that is that I think those people rarely see things that are just for them and made by someone who is one of them.
What’s nice about that is that people rarely see things that are just for them and made by someone who is one of them
Martha Summers
So I think on one level it says- tool belts and queer people who wear them are hot and sexy- and that’s a playful, affirming narrative that a lot of people find kinky and exciting. But the second layer to it, which is a bit more personal is that I think it frames a strap-on harness as a simple utilitarian device. That for some people a strap-on harness is just an utterly everyday tool/ holders of tools, to facilitate a particular act or the creation of something. It certainly is that way for me. At times it has been different, when I was younger, wearing a harness itself created a special feeling and an excitement. But now for me, there honestly is little difference between a toolbelt and harness, and I see that as a fine thing. And if you think about it, all strap-harnesses are already toolbelts for the carrying of one (sometimes two!) tools.
This piece playfully underscores lesbian humour I think for a lot of people in the community. There is a stereotype of lesbians and butches especially as ‘hands on’ in some settings (or ready to get into a DIY project for instance haha)! How much does playing on stereotypes come into your art?
I mean, I am an architect and I have been fuelled by the desire to make things since I was a tiny child, so being into DIY, construction, liking tools…all these things are part of the fabric of who I am. I think I’m conscious that the spectrum of butch identity is very wide- including both how people express and understand that identity and also what their gender may be. I think there are people who identity as butch out there that I probably have absolutely nothing in common with other than use of that term. I think that the work has been enjoyed by a wide variety of queer people- many of whom aren’t butch, or lesbian, which I think is wonderful, if a bit overwhelming!
I think basically its Dyke Camp, to reference this great piece of writing. I think stereotypes can be harmful and reductive in the wrong hands, and sometimes that includes queer people, who can sometimes be reductive and very objectifying of butches. I’ve often felt like I’m on the receiving end of a very weird set of expectations and projections just because I have like short hair and am wearing a nice jacket. So it’s like, a handle with care situation. I can make a joke about this stereotype, or this culture because it is my culture, and I know that there is much more to all of us than being like, a sexy person in a toolbelt. But also its important to be able to laugh at yourself…and often a lot of queer art can be quite serious (sometimes it needs to be) but I prefer when it’s a bit of a laugh and its joyful and silly like this. It’s camp and doesn’t take itself too seriously and I think that very important! And also its about queer domesticity- a big interest of mine in all my work… something very every day and familiar- which is often where humour can be found.
So, do you envision these stereotypes in your work as reclamation, celebration, acknowledgement of history?
I think there are some foundational texts for me as I was finding my butch identity like stone butch blues of course, the collected Dykes To Watch Out For, more recently the TV show Work In Progress and the drawings of Edith Hammar… but also sort of trawling the archives of all kinds for people who looked like me…maybe felt like me.. I really like in particular a lot of the photos of lesbians by Joan Biren or Donna Gottschalk of women in the 70s in the USA building their own communities, often topless… I could really identity with that desire to like take ownership of your body in that way whilst also physically carving out space and community for yourself, with means that are often kept from you. I feel like there is a real independence that comes with being butch or similarly gender non-conforming- and its not really through choice…but there’s always felt like there was a similar independence in my own desire to build and make things. To be able to make and maintain your own living space, for example- but also being someone who has to build their own sense of self and identity from scattered, fragmentary reference points.
So basically I think there is connection between butch identity and building/making that is really about independence and incredible strength and perseverance. For me it has nothing to do with binary ideas of “masculine” and “feminine” activities (and I do not use either of those terms to describe myself), but about what it means to be non-conforming, to be on the margins, and to have to DIY a lot more than just stuff around the house!
All images supplied by Martha Summers
To me this project really leans into the history of the working class lesbian too, is this an area of interest to you and if so why?
Yes it is.. I am not from a wealthy background at all, and I think part of what informs my artistic practice is growing up with a mum who always found a way to make things out of nothing. I remember when I started Architecture School I made my first model out of a cereal box because it literally did not cross my mind/ I didn’t have the option to spend money on raw materials…I got laughed at…but I still kind of standby it to be honest! A lot of my other projects have themes of mending in them too for similar reasons.
I think my background is also why there are a lot of domestic themes in my work- that ultimately all my work is a longing love letter to the possibly unattainable ideal of stable queer domesticity.
I think that it’s also a way to like try and help me marry my upbringing and my life now, as someone who is now university educated and got themselves a professional career, I don’t really feel at home in either class culture any more, but I feel a great deal of melancholy, fondness and homesickness for the world I grew up in- even though it was absolutely not a queer environment.
I also grew up with a father who did a lot of DIY and the garden shed was sort of like this forbidden dreamland to me where I would sneak in and steal tools that I wasn’t allowed to use- being estranged from that parent has often made my love of that world feel very tortured and painful as an adult- and I think deep down- maybe it sounds silly- but making this very queer piece of artwork that celebrates the sort of DIY, hands-on butch on my own terms- has probably been very healing in a way I simply have not divulged to anyone until now. So there’s an exciting exclusive for you haha!
And also- for similar reasons…I feel very touched by all the lesbians and queer people in the trades who messaged me to say how much they loved the piece in particular- that absolutely means the most to me. I know what it is like to be a queer person, specifically a butch woman in construction, and how rare it is to be treated with respect- making something that feels so affirming and joyful to those people in particular feels like an amazing honour.
Readers can find more of Martha’s work on her website www.marthasummers.co.uk and on Instagram @marfsummers. She has sets of postcards depicting her TOOLbelt available for £4.50 each- with more details online. And for those wishing to own their own toolbelt harness, Martha is currently getting set up to be able to produce more- with a waiting list you can join to register your interest. Martha also has a paypal link on her Instagram for anyone who wishes to tip in support of her work!
It is three o’clock in the morning and I am dancing.
Sweaty, warm bodies thrust themselves into one another like colliding waves, grinding and swinging under the neon club lights. A metal pole is hoisted from floor-to-ceiling, covered in handprints and lipstick marks. Batting its silvery eyelids, it glimmers for action, searching for purpose. I do the same.
I had never been to a gay club.
Gay relationships were not legalised in Tasmania until 1997, just three years before I was born. Same-sex marriage was a hard pill to swallow in a small, tight-knit state, and an ever harder one for a tiny rural town. Ulverstone had a poisonous past, once titled ‘Australia’s most homophobic town’, it was a hotbed of inequity.
Queerness was few and far between in Ulverstone, and I was a nervous young thing, who spent most of their time by the ocean. There wasn’t a single safe queer space in sight.
I lived on the beach with my family for most of my childhood, and often felt isolated. I was trapped behind a dangerous, oceanic wall known as the Bass Strait.
It was frequent that you could find me at the water’s edge —daydreaming of making it across the water, at least somewhat alive, to the mainland. I yearned to escape the small town, discover myself, and bloom, like a rose — or transform, like a caterpillar into a butterfly.
If only I hadn’t been born a writer, I thought.
Perhaps, if I had made it my life’s mission to become a tradesman, or a carpenter, a masculine figure, I could have built my own raft, and sailed out of Ulverstone with nothing in my pockets, except for pride.
When it came time to leave Ulverstone, however, some part of me was root-bound. Why had I struggled to let go of this place? I wanted to distance myself from it for so long. Was it the memories I had made as a young queer boy? The sloppy, amateur kisses I had handed out, like bruises, on the sand? The neighbours I often visited, and fucked, because there was no other choice?
Truth was, I owed Ulverstone a lot. The homophobia I experienced as a young gay man had left me bandaged, battered, but it also made me resilient.
I was slurred-at. Spat on. Mostly by cis-men in passing cars. All I knew, was that leaving Ulverstone was my soul-purpose. Ulverstone had taught me to move forward, keep my chin pointed toward the sunset — but none of that was an excuse for misrepresentation and abuse.
Hobart was a chance to start over. To gain control of my life, spread my wings.
Breathe.
Armed with a small baggie of cocaine and about a half-bottle of Amyl Nitrate, I ventured into the club scene astonishingly fast.
There was only one completely safe, exciting queer space in Hobart, and everybody I spoke to treated Flamingos as a second home.
Pre-pandemic, there were lines outside the door that stretched a hundred metres down the street. It was a fabulous sight, a bright, feathery, latex-y congregation of eager party-goers, smoking fat rolls of marijuana and holding their heads high with the strength of their steel spines, which they, too, had built with resilience.
All night, I paraded alongside groups of drag queens, lesbians, gay men, and many other queer people. Together, we felt strong, bonded, and mourned our pasts with spectacular cocktails and make-out sessions in the lounge. The pressure and weight that had made its way up my back, over the years, had suddenly dismantled. Finally, I felt at home. I felt free.
These days, safe spaces and queer clubs in Tasmania are dead.
In a post-pandemic world, LGBTQ+ events and venues have endured mass extinction. What was once a playful pink playground of sex, drugs and pop music, is now a skeleton of generations of queer families. ‘Flamingos’ has been blocked out, the pride flags torn from the building’s masts.
Queer friends stay home in fear of being attacked in cis and heteronormative clubs. Friends have sacrificed their leather harnesses for bulletproof vests, swapped their heels for steel capped boots, their ballgowns for cargo shorts and socks. The new owners of the venue vowed to make the building a “club for everyone.” It has been two years and we are still waiting.
Despite a slaughter of safe spaces across the state, the community remains hard-fought and faithful. We are resilient. We come together to dominate and overthrow injustices, support one-another emotionally, and celebrate our pride from our phone screens.
Queer spaces are necessary, not just in Tasmania, but globally. But we need these spaces in our state, in order to completely thrive. Places we can feel stronger together, that aren’t problematic or micro-managed. Places that encompass safety and individualism, that aren’t overly-surveilled.
Spaces that do not discriminate or judge, or spit at you from car windows.
Spaces that empower, and nourish the spectrum of identity.
Loud, proud, beautiful queer spaces, deserving of love and safety and brutal honesty. It is pride that drives us, as humans, after all.
Tasmania needs to carve new paths, creative locales, that are constituted by the social and physical boundaries of queerness and identity.
