Leigh Bowery, self expression & a manifesto - makeup is queer performance art

Text by Nicky Harrington

The face is the canvas, makeup is the medium, and the club is the plinth - this was certainly part of the manifesto of mayhem against the mainstream that Leigh Bowery represented. Queer people have historically used makeup as a tool to reimagine what existing means to us. By altering our exteriors, we are able to tell the world more about our interiors. This process of transformation has multiple functions: as protection, as expression and as a means of utilizing the physicality of our marginalized bodies to create art.

Leigh is an old master in this realm - a prime example of someone who used makeup and clothing to turn himself into a living artwork.

Luckily for Londoners and anyone passing through, we have the next best thing until August 31st: a Tate Modern solo retrospective of Bowery’s work, which holds nothing back about the posthumous club kid’s life.

The exhibition highlights Bowery’s belief that makeup is art, a viewpoint which differs from most accounts of art history. The classification of makeup as something lesser than a wearable art form relates to its origins in Western cultures as a patriarchally ordained tool for women to make themselves appear more attractive to men through ‘trickery.’ Rosier cheeks, paler skin, darker and ‘more alluring’ eyes. However, this is only one element of how makeup has been used by women and queer people to decorate themselves throughout history.

While makeup is not permanent like a portrait of someone wearing it is, its temporality contributes to its unique status as a lived in art form. This is especially applicable to makeup worn in nightlife settings. Photos which one day could become tattered, lost, or deleted, and memories, distorted by intoxication are the only mediums through which makeup looks live on. For one night the artwork tangibly exists and from then on, it is preserved, with no chance of recreating an exact copy of the original. 

‘Remember when you did that big black eye look and got so sweaty that it smudged all over your face so we didn’t take any pictures?’ 

A Love Letter to Leigh

With the above sentiment in mind, I have often thought about what it might have been like to see Leigh Bowery at the club. What if someone misremembers what they saw under the smoke and lights? 

The effect of intoxication can completely alter how art is perceived. Perhaps someone’s memory, many years later, is entirely different from reality. After kisses and tears wore away at that Kryolan white face paint, his mug might have changed entirely, creating a wholly different feeling for a person who saw him at the beginning of the night versus the end. The experience of perceiving makeup is entirely unique and situational, both for wearers and onlookers, which gives it a distinct seat at the table of artistic mediums.

This idea reminds me of a book I read last summer: Eyeliner: A Cultural History by Zahra Hankir. It explores the history of people rimming their eyes with kohl - from Nefertiti to Amy Winehouse. Hankir’s reflections on the history of eyeliner report it as a tool of rebellion, a status symbol and a medium through which people transform themselves. This demonstrates that in contrast to most art forms, ‘the artist’ (makeup wearer) simultaneously experiences the medium in two ways: through application on themselves and through seeing it worn by others. 

Makeup is lived in, in a way that most art forms are not. Its canvas must always be the human body - in all its sweaty, scarred, sunburnt, spotty, stubbly glory. It evolves as we grow older and gain more insight into how we enjoy seeing ourselves and being seen. Trends, jobs, lovers and friends change. Perhaps the eyeliner you wore every day as a teenager no longer sits in the corners of your eyes the same way. Maybe the lipstick you wore for ten years was discontinued, so you bought a different one - now you look back at photos and cringe at how awful the old one looked. Makeup wearers develop in our experiences of life just as we change our methods of application. How we present our faces to the world every day is a summation of all of that.

An inescapably human part of living is performing who we want people to see us as - and hopefully, that is just ourselves. For some, not wearing makeup is the moment in which they are performing. For others, learning how to do their makeup brings a new level of self confidence, which gives them the ability to perform their identity in a certain way. 

Bowery reminds us that makeup, even when undocumented or subtle, is performance art. It is a vital and thriving part of femme and queer identity that informs how we move through the world every single day. It functions as armor: a mode of protection, a way of signaling to people not to mess with us because we are brave enough to paint our faces, go outside and be seen. 

A drag queen beat to high-femme perfection. A goth with liner wings up to their eyebrow piercing. A club rat heading home from the afters on a far too sunny Sunday morning with eyeshadow and mascara crumbs sprinkling their cheeks. A perfectly crisp red lip on a woman heading into the office. We all wear makeup to perform or reveal something to the world, to inform how we experience ourselves, to shapeshift, to reflect our emotions and to project our queerness - however that manifests for each individual, it is sacred and powerful. 

I think we could all take something from Leigh’s raison d’être: makeup is one of the most powerful ways to transform the character in your story, to really and truly take ownership of yourself. 

So - Dear Leigh Bowery, thank you. I will forever be indebted to you for reminding me of this.