Yulia Bogacheva

VIP-hall girl

Striptease is the realm of illusion. A carefully staged show that is only possible in this setting. A mask, an image — you're no longer the same person that walked through the door. Leaving your office or college behind, leaving your one-year-old child at home — for various reasons — personal, financial, or just out of curiosity. For the first time, or maybe not the first year. Aged nineteen or twenty-nine. With higher education, or without. This series includes eighteen studies, the result of my eighteen days as ;a strip club dancer. Various people took the photographs. My diary entries comprise the text. I was surprised when the girls that work in such places lowered their eyes at my ;questions. Surprised at their reluctance to describe the process. At their monosyllabic answers to apparently simple questions. Later I discovered my own reluctance to speak of this night life from Friday through Sunday. I got irritated when female companions interrogated me and an entirely understandable glint appeared in my friends' eyes. The euphoria an explorer must feel. At one point the certainty I wanted to continue. I enjoyed every minute of those nights. It was fun, and I went there to find the self nobody knows. There comes a moment when it's hard to separate yourself from your chosen role. You cover the dark circles under your eyes with a thick layer of cheap cosmetics. Because you begrudge using expensive brands -151; too costly. You disregard holes in your stockings — it can be part of your image. You try to ignore the fine lines wrought by atigue, alcohol and too little sleep. White dresses become grey rags, so you opt for black costumes. You smile at insults till the back of your head aches. And you forget everything when you leave the club. A week later the whole thing begins again, and you forget it. Over and over again. Your only concern is the amount of money you have in your purse, how much you can earn next time. Taking another, "normal" job no longer occurs to you. It's only two nights a week, after all. That is how illusions are shattered. And you don't want to talk about it.