This apartment in Midtown, Manhattan is not owned by one person. The group was founded by one person (whom I met at their annual prom dinner) and is funded by its members like many other organizations. There is a president, vp, treasurer, secretary, etc who are elected at the end of each term. I'm actually not sure how long each position lasts. Anyway, this is a safe place for crossdressers to go whether or not they are closeted. It is a place where crossdressers and some transgender women come so they can live out their femme identities.
There are meetings and talks as well. Informative speakers sometimes come to discuss issues within the community and femininity. A big name in femme etiquette with whom these ladies are close with is Miss Vera. Miss Vera runs and founded the Finishing School for Boys. It's exactly what it sounds like. She teaches the nitty gritty of presenting as a woman for those not born into a female body. I also had the pleasure of being present when the ladies had an ear-piercing party. One of the dressers, Amy, brought her wife in to pierce the ears of those who desired so. Amy's wife is so supportive of her husbands lifestyle that she shops with and for her. She dresses her up and whatnot. They love each other. And their love is, unfortunately, rare. Amy's wife is not photographed because that would "out" Amy.
The astonishing thing here is that no matter how they present as women, the change over is astonishing. Sure you might notice differences between women born women and a few of these ladies but the minute they come out of the bathroom changed back to their male persona, minutes pass before I can figure out who just left the building. One of the most important aspects of this series is not photographing the ladies between genders. That theme is so overdone these days but more importantly, I don't see them as men and neither will the public. The livelihood and honesty that bursts from their experiences as women is nothing to be muddied with by their inevitable change of clothing.
Many of my photographs feature a woman named Ashley. I am growing close to her as the project continues as she is most comfortable and very experienced in front of a lens. When I first met her I was confused as to what her situation was. I was sure she was a transitioned male to female. As it turns out, she started dressing only 6 years ago and is not on hormones. As none of these women are 24/7, Ashley would be if she had hair. She only doesn't dress at home because of the wig discomfort. She is absolutely one of the most elegant and graceful women I've ever encountered, dresser or not. The way she maneuvers around a room and through doorways is something to be admired. She's like a Hepburn, really. Either one. Take your pick. Her humor is perfectly timed and her experience is admirable. When this series was shown to a graduate school board, she was mistaken for Nancy Reagan. A classic New York woman, she is, and I have started to spend time with her outside of the gathering place as I hope to do with some of the others.
I will leave you with this snippet of a story:
On a certain Wednesday night, a first-timer joined us in her best efforts. Her clothing was droopy, makeup inexperienced, and her wig was jet black and tangled like one sold at a costume shop. She was as sweet as pie and a little on the quiet side. I would be too as these gals are intimidating at first. She sat on the arm of the sofa and watched as her peers blew innuendos and caddy jokes at each other. Little by little she got involved in the goings-ons. What I will never forget was when some of the other ladies started to give her tips on presenting as a woman. They were delicate with her. The nest of tangled jet black straw became less and less drastic as one of the women began to brush it for her. Then another joined in the styling. The new girl sat on her arm of the sofa as two of her elders did what they could with a comb and brush. Like big sisters to their younger sibling or even a mother to daughter... "Next time DON'T get jet black. [says another as the combers shake their heads.] Look at your eyebrows....go with auburn. Jet black is always a no-no."
The newcomer agreed and blushed with appreciation. There was barely an age difference between her and her "elders" even though this was her first time physically acknowledging her femme identity. As I witnessed this rite of passage I couldn't help but think the amount of relief this newcomer was feeling after a lifetime of being closeted. That age is not a formula for experience and a mother's instinct need not be reserved for mothers.
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