A Drag Queen and a Theatre Student denounce the harshness of London LGBT Performing Arts scenes
The pair discuss how creative industries are hotbeds of classism and social pitfalls, and how their love of creativity keeps them going
When asking drag queen Candy, (“ageless”), what they do, their face, under elaborate makeup, suddenly turns joyful from a stoic neutrality as they’d just successfully glued on an eyelash. “I’m just creating a nice and friendly environment.”
In the backroom of a Soho gay bar, I’m careful not to knock a mop or rattle water bottles, send reams of feather boas tumbling, or dishevel a few perfectly manicured wigs from their foam heads.
“I’m the only Hungarian drag queen in the UK. There’s no other. I am here to entertain people” says Candy on her 13 years-strong life in London. She has a joke in her set about taking benefits [welfare] in the UK, and stealing your handbag — all in a bedazzled jest. But the undertones are serious, “There are a lot more opportunities, and it’s more mainstream. So I came here and made it my job.”
She takes on herself to be approachable and friendly, even in drag — which traditionally celebrates ‘reading’, the cultural act of tactfully insulting a fellow queen or crowd punter for mean fun, and the legendary scowls and stoic expression accentuated by elaborate makeup — because she doesn’t feel that many drag artists prioritise their guests. People who see the shows may be from persecuted countries or ostracised from loved ones, and the moment they see a drag queen in a bar may be their formative first. “You’d hope they get a nice, warm welcome. I don’t see that. That’s why I’m doing it.”
“If they [drag queens] don’t you know, you don’t bother with you.”
A similar sentiment was echoed by Scout, 26, from Kildare, Ireland — who did not want to be photographed — about the barbed environment in a place where you’d expect creative vibrancy and a sense of unity. They’re a trained actor building their experience in the musical theatre side of the industry. They're learning dance and singing, with hopes for a working actor career in musicals in the future.
They admitted “brutal” feedback on auditions in musical theatre schools as part of the territory.
The pair discussed classism in parallels: anyone can find a way to perform drag in a gay bar (the practical cost of makeup and clothes is to be considered), while musical theatre schools are gatekept, Scout feels, more than any other industry. “When you didn’t grow up with money and don’t have experience, people hold different expectations of you. It can turn into a very bitchy environment. There’s tribalism — it’s not an active thing — but it’s underlying. There is this idea you have to be built to a blueprint”.
“I’m a big believer that there’s space for everybody in the arts.”
The pair, despite their different industries and mutual love of performance art, both ascertain there is an element of meanness in their respective industries. For Candy, it comes from the social web that entangles LGBT bars as places of work and performance. “paints a harsh face on”, but enjoys the surprising juxtaposition she holds of being conversational and genuinely having time for the punters. “I feel motherly, almost. My wrinkles give it away”. Scout feels, too, that despite the people who can make an environment like a theatre training school difficult with varying levels of toxicity, there are people there in abundance who have a “genuine joy for performing”, and that they’ve met “more nice people than horrible. That perspective is needed.”
Musical theatre schools, coated with a broad-stroke brush, are entrenched in classism. Money is needed to afford tuition and fees, “Auditions have to be paid for”, Scout said. Then there’s time and travel to dedicate oneself to the craft. So the ilk of those in attendance tend to be privileged people. Scout doesn’t come from such a background and has relied on initiatives intended to diversify the studentship. And that, in turn, has fired up their desire to succeed in the face of difficulty. “The kind of skills you’d need to get into drama school, it’s like they want you fully-trained. That requires you to be in training since childhood, requiring money. Get taken to singing lessons, piano, dance, whatever. I built mine [skillset] up in different ways, without this prior training, and they take you differently. People get subtly catty, as they don’t know how to take you.”
The pair are firecrackers of personalities; my voice recorder bleeper has never been used so much. And it’s glorious. They both exude charisma while talking about both their art forms and niche challenges in their professions. Candy struggles with dresses getting caught in Uber doors (“short is sorted, long is wrong”), while Scout once glued their hands together while sticking diamantés onto a pair of pumps (“would’ve applauded my stupidity if I physically could’ve”). Hearing of their struggles, and being made to feel lesser-than, is saddening. Fortunately, they’re both bubbling with resolve. A forward-facing eye on change.
Scout is enthused about their industry. “I chose to do this. If there was something else I’d go and do it to make my life easier. But this is where I am because I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Generally, I know more kind, supportive people than those who are not. I think us as actors should be a community. Hold each other up sort of thing.”
Candy had to make a swift exit as we wrapped our conversation up as they were due to head on stage. I shouted, any last words?: “Everybody” come and see me. Be entertained. Be mesmerised.” And with the swoosh of a crushed velvet curtain stapled into the wall, she was gone.