The Red Prosopon of Calliope
A performance to strangle for
You are invited to attend the Red Orchestra of the Modern Theater. This play is nonfiction. The cast roles are 11 women. All will wear masks under the director’s request. The faces will be revealed after the play.
Front Row View
I am sitting in the front row, left side. I hold no beer or beverages in my hands. Just a copy of the show’s program. Which really tells me nothing. Because I’ve come to see these women knowing the jist already. Alright, red masks.
Some masks have drawn flowers on them. Some have tilted black scars lost in the red. Some have knives and it makes my blood boil. Some are faded. The masks on the front row view, look between ugly to beautiful, but… if I look further, for a few more seconds, there is a variety. These women differentiate from my opinion. Huh.
Frail Calliope
Those with flowery masks are playing a fragile role. Their legs are too small, their choreography is too light. The steps they are dancing are frail. It seems to me that these women are aware of everything at once. Even outside this theatre. And yet, they don’t support their wrists on others. They seem to complete their scene proudly, standing. Once again, if I look… there is an elegance in their fragility. Long after, minutes after, I realize they have succeeded in their movements without help. Or asking for. They are only fragile in one sense, just one. This is a mystery to me. Huh.
Crazy Eve
Oh, those with the knives. Every woman lately wants to hold a knife. This notion feels provocative to me. They look absolutely ridiculous with a knife.
In the next scene, the woman drops the knife but, she drops faster. She is on the ground as her wrist air-snaps in two. I am thoroughly confused. Why did she have a knife in her scene then? Why did she drop without using it? Why is she dead? Honestly, all I see is her and her failure to fight. To live.
Moving on. I wish I could move on but it appears the knived masks are worn by more than just one. This sight makes me feel uncomfortable, even in the audience. It’s not easy to be here. My personal role feels distraught. A woman with a knife in her hand is dead and I am in the audience judging.
Maybe if she was with a flowery mask, I wouldn’t have to be forced to feel so uncomfortable in this scenario. I prefer my reality. Before, a woman with a knife was a lurid thought. I couldn’t imagine a single scenario where she will need one. Ever. This.. has never crossed my mind before today. Huh.
Ghostriders
The women with the scarred masks appear. They look completely normal. They dance the sequence that my neighbors dance in the studio near my house. It is the same dance. I guess even scarred, they can do normal things. I slowly understand the scene. The scars are battle scars. And yet they dance. That is good for them. I respect a fighter. I always respect a fighter. Life is hard. You better get up and build your life again. That is a mask of a woman I can’t judge. Huh.
False Gods
There are some women with faded red masks. They are perfectly synchronized. Looking above their shoulders, they are delicate swans. Divine. What a sight! They have perfected the delicacy of fragility and the beautiful part of a strong woman. What a picture! There is nothing I would put a word on to define it as ugly! Finally! I have sat here all night and exhausted myself. I clap manically. How can I meet all of them at once? All I see is a dream come true. Look at them. Perfect. This is a vision that makes my eyes sparkle. Finally, I am comfortable.
When the light slowly dims and the performance is ending… the corners of their eyes behind the mask are streaming rivers of blood. I realize then I never looked at them in the eyes, the whole time I have been here.
Unmasked
I am full of adrenaline. I want to see as many of these women unmasked as I can. I remember a few that caught my interest. I am also wildly interested in the process. I want to see those big eyelashes up close. The perfect lines of the tight thighs. The real joy is here. I am gonna see. Because I can and I want to. I am gonna talk to these women because I can. I am gonna ask them anything I want because I can. It’s a free world I can flirt right after they have finished a show that made their eyes bleed. Because I am right here and my feet are already standing outside their door. Because it’s me.
First 11 steps towards the backstage and I stop as if a full bus hit me. A girl takes off the flower mask with her hands that were so unimportant and a bit unbrave at first, it’s my sister. The women with the knives are my friends. They look utterly exhausted as they wipe the knives off the masks. And here I was complaining as I sat and watched. Deep shame fills me. The scarred masks are unmasked and there are my coworkers. The strawberry blonde is my boss. But, how. I am looking around backstage, I know these women. A perfect mask comes off. I don’t even need to look at her to know these hands. She fed me from her garden my whole underage life. It’s my mom.
Their hands come together and they exchange masks for another play. I am looking at one of the biggest injustices in the world. What is my role? What can I do?
This piece is dedicated to the 11 femicides in Greece during 2021.
