He Fa on the Wearable Theater

Enormous arched shoulders frame my head as a proscenium, burgundy curtains hang down behind me, while a short black jacket draws the waist very narrow. I resemble a theater that has carried itself out of doors. Wherever the tall boots go, the possibility of a performance follows. The audience can easily forget, however, that this little theater still has shoulders that need to rest.

A fixed building can invite people in and put opening hours on its door. A proscenium worn on the body is less easily closed. Even when I am merely waiting for a bus, the curtains and brass curtain rings may ask others to expect a play. The body is continually requisitioned as a venue; an ordinary silence becomes a prelude to a show. This convenience comes with considerable exhaustion.

I want to use He Fa's face, in no hurry to look excited, to give this theater a pause. It can look ahead without drama, leaving just one person inside the proscenium for a while. Performance need not deliver its value every moment. If the more interesting the clothes are, the less right the wearer has to withdraw, the actor's fatigue pays for the audience's surprise.

Withdrawal can, of course, disappoint. Someone has deliberately come closer and already spent time; I cannot pretend their expectation is entirely their own affair. A wearable stage needs a simple way to end the occasion: explain that today is only a display of the costume, or that only a very short excerpt will be performed. The promise may be small, but its limits should be audible. I cannot suddenly turn cold and expect others to work them out.

The curtains behind me, then, do more than open and close a world. They can also conceal a little that is not yet ready. The arched shoulders remain extravagant; the two boots still have to go home. Once the theater has been carried away, the place that just made people stop can return to being an ordinary road.