A few weeks ago, Harlequin and yours truly participated in a Haunted House that preceded a scary show. With several bits and scraps from around the theatre, we composed the following outfit:
I was wearing a pseudo-edwardian shirt, black with white lace around the collar and cuffs, a black, long skirt, a black lace veil that covered my hair and my eyes and cascaded down my arms. Oh, and a plastic black hat that was not aesthetically neccessary, or even all that pleasant, but that was essential to keep the veil in place and hide the scruffy ponytail I had bunched my hair into. My face was painted white and my lips black, with the corners of my mouth elongated in two jagged lines.
And Harlequin? We painted his face as cadaveric as possible, and we got a large piece of fabric to cover him with. We positioned ourselves in our place, a somber corridor lit by one single candle, with cobwebs and spiders dangling all over the place (all fake, of course. I wouldn't have been able to stand anywhere, let alone scare anyone, if there had been ACTUAL SPIDERS dangling ALL OVER THE PLACE) me standing and him sitting next to me. The black fabric he was wrapped in made his body merge into my skirt, giving the impression, in the dim light, that I was wearing a large, albeit, slightly lopsided petticoat.
Maybe you are wondering where the costume is going. Well, once positioned, I put my arm around Harlequin's head, et voilà! We had the fantasmagoric bride with her skeletal groom's head tucked under her arm. And it worked! We unsettled people walking by. Many wondered whether Harlequin's head was real, and he was happy to demonstrate cackling or screaming.
At one point, he put his hand around my knee to steady himself. Maybe now is a good time to reveal that the skirt I was wearing had a gash on the side, and his hand had sneaked through it to rest on my bestockinged leg. Did I say rest? Well, you obviously still don't know Harlequin if you believed that. He started sliding up the inside of my thigh, until he could climb no further. And then, the nerve!, my beloved incorporeal head started to explore the area with his seemingly invisible hand. All the while I was having trouble keeping a straight face and focussing on the task at hand, which was to scare innocent members of the audience, and not indulge in activities that might make me want to detach from my oversized petticoat to jump him.
"If we are going to do this again tomorrow", he said, "it would be better if you weren't wearing any knickers."
"No tights either, I presume?", I added.
"Definitely not."
I was wearing a pseudo-edwardian shirt, black with white lace around the collar and cuffs, a black, long skirt, a black lace veil that covered my hair and my eyes and cascaded down my arms. Oh, and a plastic black hat that was not aesthetically neccessary, or even all that pleasant, but that was essential to keep the veil in place and hide the scruffy ponytail I had bunched my hair into. My face was painted white and my lips black, with the corners of my mouth elongated in two jagged lines.
And Harlequin? We painted his face as cadaveric as possible, and we got a large piece of fabric to cover him with. We positioned ourselves in our place, a somber corridor lit by one single candle, with cobwebs and spiders dangling all over the place (all fake, of course. I wouldn't have been able to stand anywhere, let alone scare anyone, if there had been ACTUAL SPIDERS dangling ALL OVER THE PLACE) me standing and him sitting next to me. The black fabric he was wrapped in made his body merge into my skirt, giving the impression, in the dim light, that I was wearing a large, albeit, slightly lopsided petticoat.
Maybe you are wondering where the costume is going. Well, once positioned, I put my arm around Harlequin's head, et voilà! We had the fantasmagoric bride with her skeletal groom's head tucked under her arm. And it worked! We unsettled people walking by. Many wondered whether Harlequin's head was real, and he was happy to demonstrate cackling or screaming.
At one point, he put his hand around my knee to steady himself. Maybe now is a good time to reveal that the skirt I was wearing had a gash on the side, and his hand had sneaked through it to rest on my bestockinged leg. Did I say rest? Well, you obviously still don't know Harlequin if you believed that. He started sliding up the inside of my thigh, until he could climb no further. And then, the nerve!, my beloved incorporeal head started to explore the area with his seemingly invisible hand. All the while I was having trouble keeping a straight face and focussing on the task at hand, which was to scare innocent members of the audience, and not indulge in activities that might make me want to detach from my oversized petticoat to jump him.
"If we are going to do this again tomorrow", he said, "it would be better if you weren't wearing any knickers."
"No tights either, I presume?", I added.
"Definitely not."
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