Author: Christy DeSmith

In 2004, the Guthrie Theater offered to send a favorite playwright, Julie Marie Myatt, to wherever in the world she wished to go, just so long as her travels inspired a new play. Myatt chose Cambodia. Once there, she immersed herself in the sex trade, interviewing child prostitutes and even volunteering for organizations trying to rehabilitate the girls. This wasn’t too far a stretch for Myatt, whose repertoire includes such provocative plays as Cowbird, The Joy of Having a Body, and The Sex Habits of American Women, all of which address complicated issues related to sexual identity. With this new piece, Myatt not only explores the challenging subject of the sex trade, but also looks at the motives of aid workers, mostly Westerners, who feel drawn to Cambodia. These do-gooders strive, perhaps in vain, to restore the country’s lost girlhoods. Guthrie Theater, 612-377-2224.

The Burning House Group was once the darling of the local theater scene, a collective of talented young performers forged in the crucibles of such dearly departed companies as Eye of the Storm and Margolis Brown. Today, the troupe is best remembered for its hit ’97 production Knock Knock, which was an uproarious farce with plenty of mistaken identities and slamming doors. Now, the company hopes to duplicate that success by returning to its physical-performance roots. What the Butler Saw is a ’60s-era sexual farce smartly written by Joe Orton, the playwright most famous for his black comedy Entertaining Mr. Sloane. This vicious send-up of sexual mores takes place in a psychiatrist’s office where the characters are caught, one by one, with their pants around their ankles. Minneapolis Theater Garage, 711 Franklin Ave. W., Minneapolis; 612-623-9396.

By commissioning five pieces of original music, each of which is to be accompanied by some form of electronic media, the Southern Theater is hitting upon a big trend in the contemporary composition business. As of late, composers of all stripes have sought collaborations with video and performance artists, thus adding an element of spectacle that blurs the lines between concert, play, and even film. On the docket for the first-ever Electric Eyes festival: Acoustic playing by New York composer and violinist Todd Reynolds is filtered through a multi-channel manipulative device. The reverberating sounds of the improvisational Minneapolis band Electropolis get video and aerialist accompaniment. VJ Never was, a well-known Electropolis collaborator, combines his handpicked video clips with live, electronically mixed music. And an emerging composer named J. Anthony Allen combines his own electronic sound installations with metronomic images. Southern Theater, 612-340-1725.

“There are hidden energies in a home. And you can’t predict them; you’ve just got to find them.” Two years ago, Anna Lee was settling in to a new apartment in Northeast Minneapolis. The now-thirty-year-old milliner and producer of local fashion shows attempted to set up the spare bedroom as her studio, lugging her desk, various canvases, and large fabric bolts there from the living room. “But the funny thing,” she recounted, “is how everything found its way into the living room.”

Lee now submits to the living room’s auspicious powers as the place where she feels most inspired. An aluminum work lamp illuminates a display of her sculptural hats on one wall. One that resembles a Native American headdress is pinned at the wall’s center while others, such as a trio of feathered, Moulin Rouge-inspired colossi, are balanced on mannequin heads lined up on a long worktable. Scattered among the headwear are fashionable keepsakes and artworks: portraits featuring a favorite model, Anna Boman, wearing one of Lee’s showgirl-style creations; and Balance, a mixed-media piece by the local artist Jennifer Davis, which includes a prominent image of a flapper. Everywhere, stacks of paperwork and sketches have been mounting as two fashion events approach: Voltage: Fashion Amplified, the rock ’n’ roll runway show Lee produces annually, and the Minnesota History Center’s RetroRama, a vintage-inspired affair that is not only produced by Lee but will also feature some of her original wares.

Despite all of the work-related material, the space still functions as a living room, too. A matching sofa and easy chair—bought secondhand from one of her coworkers at Target corporate headquarters, and upholstered in a cobalt velour with a vine pattern—look especially luminous in the glow of two simple wooden lamps. “I try to surround myself with things that make sense to me—things with beautiful colors and details. And if I’m going to have it around, it better have a story behind it,” said Lee.

In fact, the room brims with storied objects. Many involve Lee making peace with her past. Some solar etchings she made are based on an old photo of her grandfather in which the then-pint-sized child, in top hat and tails, holds a cane and stretches his arms out alongside his partner, a little girl in a tutu. “He was a vaudeville performer in Fargo when he was ten,” Lee explained, “a tap dancer at the Fargo Theatre.” For years, she said, her resemblance to this man, and the rest of her family for that matter, escaped her. But she has since grown to revere the artistic clan of North Dakotans from which she comes. Elsewhere, both an artwork made from black kimono scrap, a gift from a former boss Lee had in Fargo, and a photo of the daughter Lee bore and placed for adoption while studying at Moorhead State hint at a rich and, at times, painful personal history. As Lee noted: “I haven’t invited many people here. It’s been my little hideaway, my Alice-in-Wonderland house.”

First Avenue hosts Voltage: Fashion Amplified on April 11; for more information, www.voltagefashionamplified.com.

RetroRama takes place at the Minnesota History Center on April 26; visit www.mnhs.org for more information.

“Eveningwear made comfortable”: Those are the operative words this season for Katherine Gerdes, the twenty-five-year-old designer best known for her appearance on Project Runway. The artist has successfully parlayed that exposure into businesses offering custom fashion and ready-to-wear, both of which bear the signature of Gerdes’ casual aesthetic. The avid snowboarder requires a loose fit from her own wardrobe, and has always designed for comfort as well as form. Last year at DIVA, she unveiled wrinkle-resistant gowns that could be packed into overnight bags. Now, a rainbow’s worth of jersey fabrics are stacked in Gerdes’ new downtown Minneapolis studio, destined to be made into a line of elegant but relaxed-looking dresses. Those gowns will premiere at the upscale DIVA gala, then reappear next month at Voltage, the fashion show geared to urban looks and streetwear. “These dresses will work well for both,” she pointed out.

Saks, Marshall Field’s, and the Minneapolis-based clothier Kuhlman have all produced menswear designed by Jason Hammerberg. But these days the thirty-three-year-old veteran has gone global as an independent apparel designer. Right now, for instance, he’s working with a manufacturer based in Istanbul, putting pen to paper for an “iPod-friendly” line for young men. But Hammerberg doesn’t do any of the stitching in his Golden Valley home/studio—instead, he sends sketches and representative images from magazines to the manufacturer, which then creates a pattern at the factory in Turkey. The versatile Hammerberg also meets with local clients desiring custom menswear—usually tailored jackets, pants, and suits akin to the dandy ensembles he’s dreaming up for the DIVA runway. And in his spare time, he designs baby onesies printed with punchy graphics and slogans, sold locally under the Brand New Baby Wear label. Why dabble in infant fashions? His twelve nieces and nephews are an inspiration. “I became an uncle when I was twelve,” he explained. “I love kids, been around them my whole life.”

“I liked the really cool things I was seeing in GQ and other magazines, like Versace,” said Russell Bourrienne, recalling his adolescence in the 1980s. “But most fourteen-year-olds can’t get their hands on that stuff”—especially if they are growing up outside St. Cloud. So he taught himself to sew, and now central Minnesota’s most fashionable teen has grown into an honest-to-goodness couturier, working out of a compact studio in Minneapolis’ Lyn-Lake area. One side is a showroom; the other is packed with fabrics, sketch books, a worktable, and no fewer than ten sewing machines, some state of the art, some vintage, one still in its box. “I’m very into the ’70s,” said Bourrienne, by way of characterizing his elaborate creations. That translates more specifically as menswear with exaggerated, often elongated silhouettes, done up in bold geometric patterns. For DIVA, his “English-Asian confusion” looks are inspired by the 1937 flick Lost Horizon, in which a plane full of Brits crashes into Shangri-la.

The DIVA MN benefit unfolds on March 3 at International Market Square, 275 Market St. in Minneapolis. Tickets at 651-209-6799 or divamn.org.

Smitten Kitten, the South Minneapolis sex boutique, recently launched its own version of the in-home sex-toy party, at which such wares as lubricants and vibrators are passed around for taste-testing, manhandling, discussion, and, of course, purchase. These “Pussy Parties” are geared to have a more urban, less hetero bent than, say, “Passion Parties,” which is what the industry leader calls its gatherings. Lindsey, a roaming sex educator employed by Smitten Kitten, presided over a dozen randy partygoers a few weeks ago. The hostesses were college students, Jessie and Jacqueline, who had booked the party in honor of their soon-to-be-married friend Liz. For the occasion, they’d wallpapered their Southeast Minneapolis living room with pornographic images—cutouts of naked men taken from Slurp and other similarly tasteful 80s-era publications. Seasoned pro that she is, Lindsey didn’t bat an eye. During a lecture on male anatomy, in fact, she pointed to one of the photographs of a gentleman in full recline and said, “This guy, there’s his taint!”
Suited up as if to assert an authoritative air, the twenty-six-year-old Lindsey wore a short red skirt, black tights, and a pair of tall, calf-hugging black boots. She’d applied a light dusting of makeup to her baby face, and her closely cropped auburn hair was wispy and spiked. Providing a hint of what was to come, she announced, “I’ve got the Cock Box,” and opened a vintage trunk to reveal a fantastic display of satin and hard plastics. Lubricants were stowed in satchels and side pouches, while vibrators were belted down by what looked to be a series of frilly garter belts. “I’d like you to know that my mom helped me make this box,” Lindsey said.
In the next hour or so, she would educate (“Semen comes out at twenty-eight miles per hour”), boggle (“You don’t have to worry about losing things in your vagina—your butt, now that’s a different story”), and pitch with equal zeal. She waxed poetic on the virtues of such products as Rocket Balm (“sort of like a hot, sexy Bengay”) and O’My Clitoral Stimulating Gel. As guests passed around the Fukuoku Finger Vibe, Lindsey suggested this inconspicuous massager would pack well for travel. It isn’t likely to bring its owner unwanted attention from airport security agents, although such a scenario didn’t seem much of a concern for Lindsey. “When I travel I put a big dildo on top of my suitcase,” she said. “I think it’s funny and I want them to check it.”
Among a batch of scary-looking toys, many of which bore a vague resemblance to weapons of torture, Lindsey introduced the Sea Goddess, an aquamarine, cactus-shaped contraption. This two-headed creature, she said, both pulses and “does a Ricki Lake-like neck twist.” An imposing doodad called the Echo resembled a chocolate soft-serve ice cream cone and had the all-important flared base. “You can put this in a harness or in a butt,” Lindsey said. “You can also put this in the dishwasher.”
She was also more than candid regarding her own sexual practices. For example, as a motivational reward to herself, she said, she inserts something called Smartballs every time she does housework. “It makes you shake your butt a little more while you’re vacuuming,” she said. More shocking still was her claim of having convinced men (yes, more than one) to insert things up their backsides; because of the opportune placement of their prostates, or P-spots, they’d all thanked her for it later, she said.
Shortly after bowling over the room with this last statement, Lindsey packed up the Cock Box and carried it upstairs, making herself available in one of the home’s private bedrooms so that partygoers could discreetly place orders and ask questions. Having spent the past sixty minutes under Lindsey’ erotic spell, no one in the living room seemed quite certain of how to proceed in her absence. One woman sighed. Another stretched her arms as she looked around. A few had their heads buried in their order forms, presumably pondering purchases of Body Wax Candles and Kama Sutra Honey Dust. Finally, a Pussy Party attendee named Alison spoke up. “I feel like I’m ordering Girl Scout Cookies,” she said.