Queer Performance

The idea of performativity gets thrown around a lot in Queer Theory; indeed, this notion of gender being “performative” was, I felt, inherently offensive. Even separating it from the potentially unintentional connotation that gender is simply an act—like a play, a grand farce—the vast majority of transsexuals I know would readily voice dissenting opinions that gender is not merely something you “do.” A very wise friend of mine once said, “Authenticity is not a word in the vocabulary of those who "do" gender. Just sayin'...” Gender, itself, is a more internalized force—the only “doing” of gender is, in fact, via gender expression, and we all know that any given gender expression may not be an authentic representation/reflection of our gender identity.

But the idea of performative identity still holds some degree of merit. After all, if an identity stays locked up inside a closet, away from any other’s knowledge, then does it really exist? It’s a tree falling without anyone to hear it—a single hand clapping in the wind. Yes, it exists. Yes, it is real, authentic, and even palpable to the individual. It is not, however, relevant insofar as interpersonal relationships are concerned. If that identity never sees the light of day—if there is no one to witness it, experience it, or relate with it—then it may as well be dead. This is, of course, because people are social being with a social culture, and our identities require interpersonal contact. It’s why Judith Butler recognized that some “performances” are successful while others fail. The success of our identities, to some degree, is dependent on external forces, and they therefore cannot be sustained for long within a vacuum.

This is a long set up for my story. I have been learning to play the violin for about two years now. Granted I did not practice much over the first several months, and then there was a half-year hiatus. Altogether I’ve probably had about a year’s worth of dedicated violin study, and in my own mind I fancied myself becoming a musician, taking to the stage like Lucia Micarelli or Emilie Autumn, in a band like Bridget Regan or Rebecca Manthe. Alas, over the past two years, I had never played violin in front of anyone—save for my violin teachers—leaving quite a gap between me, alone in my room, and the sold-out audiences of the big-name violinists. For all the people that did hear me play (three teachers, and (muffled through walls) neighbours) I may as well not have been a musician at all—art is a medium to be shared with others; private art loses any tangible, interpersonal meaning—relevance to the world is nonexistent. This, however, came to a smashing end last night as I, for the first time ever, took to the stage and played before an audience of 30-40 people.

As a performance, I sucked (there’s no polite way to phrase my disappointment in my lack of sill). However, the audience was, nonetheless, very supportive, and I even had several people approach me later and commend me on “beautiful fiddle playing.” While I felt each flat note—every over-shift into third position—and ever skipped beat, I still take great pride that I was able to stand up before an audience and play. Regardless of how I feel about the quality of my performance last night, I realize that I just took the first critical step in my musical career: I am now more than just some girl playing the fiddle in her room. I am now a musician. Granted, I may be a shitty musician at the moment, but I am, nonetheless, a musician.

In all fairness, I was a musician before last night as well. I was still studying music, learning different musical keys, working on intonation and rhythm; however, that identity was not actualized. Likewise a similar scenario exists with any identity: the identity, itself, may well be authentic and real to us (to the individual), but it fails to achieve a realized potential for relevance until it can exist outside of isolation. Once it sees the light of day, though, it adopts relevance and it becomes an actualized expression of the self. I disagree with Butler’s assessment that some performances fail while other succeed. Maybe in the narrow definitions of a judgmental society, such a system of “pass/fail” may exist. But in a more queer sense of reality, there are differing degrees of what manifestations become us, and differing degrees of ability within a definite temporal frame. The overall “success” (if it can so be measured) is more dynamic and, ultimately, the only critic who necessarily matters is, once again, the individual. True enough, members of any given culture can write off a performance as a failure, and castigation may be their subsequent reaction. Nonetheless, even a “failed” performance opens up the door of that new self to you. This is the truth that society doesn’t want you to know: your mere perseverance is necessarily your victory. Your bravery to manifest that identity—regardless of its subjective “success”—is your triumph.