Saturday, 8 March 2014

It takes balls to be a Drag Queen

Never a dull moment.

I first met Ryan at a photoshoot that was all about fabulous ball gowns, outrageous make up and spangly shoes.
It was obvious he was in his element.

We met again at a Dr Sketchy drawing class, where Ryan was one of the models.
This time he was in full warpaint, huge wig, figure hugging skeleton dress and an attitude that made the her in him into the patron saint of PMS.
Ryan is tall. No, I mean really tall, as in really, really tall, but in heels he is a danger to aircraft.
I'd arranged to meet him beforehand to find out who he is when he's not being Ryan, and a who he is when he is.
As I drew him, he emerged as a lovely, confident guy with a lot of caring, sensitive attitudes who just happens to like morphing into a loud, outrageous Diva bitch monster on a regular basis.
What struck me most was how logical, reasonable and fun that seemed.
At the risk of getting too clever, maybe there's a streak of that in all of us, it's just some of us haven't got the legs for it.

Anyhoo, he became  my 'face of the BP Awards' on the basis that entering national portrait competitions is about as wildly optimistic as sending Putin a T-shirt with a smiley face on it that says 'Love thy neighbour' and expecting him to buddy up with the Dalai Lama,  so you might as well send in something a bit bonkers.

This, then is what is going on a trip to London, where it will pass before the dead, doll-like eyes of the judges for about 1/60th of a second, before being spat out and sent back to the Shires where all the wannabe artists who nobody's heard of live in bucolic resignation.

Basically, I don't think they'll like it. They may not even notice it, which is worse.

Thing is though, it doesn't matter,

I use competitions as deadlines, a false line in the sand that provides the pressure to get on with it and not faff about.

And I got to meet another amazing person.

Or two...