Have you hugged, kissed and respected your brown Venus today ? at the Théâtre de la Ville

I did not quite know what to expected as I waited patiently outside porte 2, glass of vin blanc in hand. When four sprightly big bottomed women emerged from the stage doors and began to mingle with the waiting audience.

Intriguing as they appeared, I was reluctant to speak to the one closes to me, since my GCSE French would instantly unveiled me as a foreigner and newby to Parisian theatre scene, as it did ten minutes earlier when I checked in my bag and coat.

We exchanged smiles, and she proceded to speak with another seated lady, while passerby stole the opportunities to photograph her elaborate clothes and exotic looks.

In their colourful felt bonnets and patent doc martins, these women were transmogrified into a modern versions of Sarah Baartman, the Hottentot Venus and we the reluctant voyeurs.
The piece, advertised as a dance, was mostly interactive theatre, with the four Sarahs; two french; one Khoisan and the other English speaking, directing most of their performance and conversation either at each other, themselves or the audience.


In fact, as the light dimmed, the universal signals to ferme la bouche because the show is about to start, they continued chatting, much to the annoyance of the purist amongst us.

Sarah's story was told through narrative, mime, movement and video, in one instance, a roving camera.
A scene from her court case in England was cleverly conveyed by English speaking Sarah commandeering the mouth of a member of the audience, who was railroaded into repeating after her.

Or when the Sarahs wrapped themselves in colourful lace and asked four attractive men in the audience to help unwrap them.

Video had a place in this performance from early on, with many vignette of southern African women, and a young woman running. There were also moments, where Sarah was speaking directly to her management, protesting about her part and what she was and was not will to do.

It is not uncommon for attendees at da la ville to get up a leave in disgust, and there were no exception at this performance. When French speaking Sarah ask for her bag, the brown one, to be brought down from her seat. we were treated to some jaw dropping erotic play, when she opened it, and then asked another unsuspecting audience member, to pull on the little pink material as the bag was neatly positioned between her legs. Or when English speaking Sarah rummaged for a sweet in her bosom, illuminated on the big screen as roving camera transmitted snatches of flesh and unidentifiable creases.

Just as we were becoming comfortable with the format of the show, we were once more surprised, by blond wigged woman, bursting into song in the middle of  1st circle.

Sarah did not die in the end, she left the stage and sat down in her seats, she clapped along with us, she applauded, she was coy but then she rose and proceeded to shake hands as she made her way to the back.

What did it mean, this story of Sarah Baartman, this dance that was not only a dance, this audience that was not only an audience. What message should we take away.