Do you know what hit me in the face when I walked in to the big changing room as one of many nude performers? The nudity! Nude girls everywhere; painting their nails, packing their things, searching in their bags, putting on make up. They wore no clothes! They moved around with the ease of being in a public coffee shop without a thought to having private parts on their bodies. Do I make sense? No, I guess not. Is it not worse to be nude in public on a stage? I know, I won’t argue with that. I somehow had this stupid notion that if you act a part it was not wrong.
This was a proper theatre. Everything was very professional. Every girl had her own chair and mirror surrounded by lights. A whole crew of stage men was running around back stage changing props and warning girls to get ready. They would have conversations with nude girls as if they worked for the emperor’s new clothing company. There were professional full time choreographers and lighting people employed. No cost was spared to bring the nude girls in to fantasy worlds.
Then there was me. No make up. My only prop a baby bath tub with a white soapy vest inside the water. I would start off by stomping my foot to the African beat and then have the whole of Africa break through me in a dance routine that made everyone sit up in surprise and wonder. I was most nude when clothed in a wet clinging garment. The words, the rhythm and the enjoyment would spill over to the audience like the wet water in the bath. Enough to want more, just when the show was over. So I heard many came back again and again to experience the bit of Africa under a white skin.
London (1978) – My First Day at Work