Ophelia, Barbie & me

Ophelia, Barbie & me

Solo piece written, directed and starring myself.

Synopsis : Both a comedic and tragic protagonist at the same time, Me/Barbie, reflects on moments of her life. She is visited by a comforting presence; a woman by the name of Ophelia, who is without flesh. She also keeps company with another; a Barbie doll- a miniature double of her own same self. Me/Barbie moves about between (and inside of) these two feminine figures and forms a strong bond of friendship with them both.

This autofictionnal theatre piece was inspired by my own body and my own disorders. I decided to work from this character I created, character I myself have now become, as well as the sometimes rather subversive image it gives off. This piece tackles several themes including self-image, sexual abuse and personality disorder.

Extracts from Ophelia, Barbie et moi

My stockings are slashed, my sex cries from the shame, screams its pain to have been lacerated. In the window, a mirror is observing me. I would like it to stop but it does not take its eyes off of me. I am angry with the image it reflects. From being an almost perfect doll the night before, to this.
The only survivors from the disaster are the Louboutin and the silicone. Mixed with tears, snot and dry semen make up forms a kind of disgusting flaking plaster like substance. Yes, even Chanel make up suffers from this sort of staining once mixed with bodily fluids.
I wonder if I have any of that amazing caviar miracle mask left. And also if they at least put a condom on.

« You like to be fucked as a whore don’t you bitch” Apart from sex, he is a lovely man. I’m gazing through the window. The light of the candles draws her contours, she is there, outside, watching us. Her presence, I have learnt to tame it. She used to frighten me, now she reassures me. The pain becomes almost unbearable. I wish I didn’t come. I do not have any ski suit. What’s the point… ?

« Touched by the chilled air I suddenly get a surge of life. Such pain overwhelms me. On my fleshless hands, a moth falls asleep, sole witness of this tragedy. » Indeed, Ophelia has no flesh left. “The night wraps itself around me, with its modest cloak it covers me and I, stay there.
The moon, the stars, are to be seen nowhere. The fog calls out to me, coats me, eats me away and pukes me back out. What is left of me? Ophelia, waste product rejected by satisfied warms, enjoyed with no mercy, consumed until nauseous, such as the man who tasted my skin and penetrated my flesh. Tore me apart.”

I love Christmas Markets. There’s an absurd naivety to them, but they make me happy. They make me so happy that the day I will slit my wrists, I will do it between handmade candles and miniature crèches stands, to the chorus of cheerful church choir songs. The night is about to envelope the wooden huts. This is the moment I long for. Sipping hot cinnamon wine, I wait for the light to shine and the figurines to come alive. Like clockwork, the curtain raises as the night falls. Tiny wooden marionettes dangled by faceless poets. The first brought to life is a small gingerbread man. The second, a Christmas reindeer (yes, those blessed with the gift of flight).

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