Response
A bare stage with a backdrop of bunched plastic sheeting against a backboard, flecked with spots of black tape.
Ellen stalks out in a bright red party wig, red-tinted glasses, black boots and a gold, superhero-style outfit that consists of tight, shiny pants with a red belt and a crossover top with sparkly tinsel trim and puffy capped sleeves. She marches frantically back and forth as though looking for something.
A shorter woman - Romaine - arrives dressed as a man, wearing a blonde mullet wig, blue-tinted sunglasses and a grey suit with matching ankle boots. She has six penises and scrotums made of grey fabric dangling from her groin, another attached to the back of her mullet, and another standing erect atop the staff in her left hand.
What are you doing?
Ellen gasps, staggering backwards.
I know what you're gonna say...and yes, my eyes are my favourite part of my body too.
She holds her head up proudly.
I love my eyes. They just seep into my soul like a broccoli smoothie.
Romaine poses with her staff. Ellen grimaces comically.
Oh no, I did it again. I rubbed my eye after I picked my bum. Now my eye stinks.
You're losing points for telling me that.
They both spin dreamily in unison, their arms spread wide, then pump their bodies like dancers.
Have you seen my dark green shirt? When I wear it, I look like a sewer.
My dick. My dick. My dick.
Ellen parades proudly.
I fucked Australia, and I'm still not a slut.
The stage lighting flashes red. Ellen takes out a small book and holds it up in front of her as Romaine dances a little jig.
You're not supposed to talk like that.
The lights return to normal.
What's this?
What's what?
This.
Romaine points with her penis staff.
This?
This.
This?
Romaine taps the book with the penis that was previously hanging from her mullet.
This.
This.
This.
A book.
A book!
Yeah, reading.
Yeah, reading!
Ellen turns a page, but Romaine pokes at her repeatedly with the penis on the staff and the one in her hand. Ellen edges away from her.
I'm just minding my own business.
I'm just minding MY own business.
Are you copying everything I say?
Romaine licks the penis in her hand. The lighting turns red.
I'm gonna stick my dick in my mouth and smoke a cigar while I piss and get rich, tell lies, start a cult and a family. Tell them what to do, then change my mind, but pretend I didn't, then get mad about it, drink your blood, shit your blood out of my diarrhoea poop, diarrhoea poop on your mother's grave and other manly things like kill a deer and your friends' confidence while I think about how I feel about all of this. I'm...leaving.
She lays down her staff and penis on the floor, but as she's crouched beside them the lights return to normal and Ellen slowly approaches her from behind, still reading her book but also waggling her bottom in time to the fart effects playing.
Ellen circles one leg over Romaine's head and then waggles her gold-clad bottom very close to Romaine's mullet, practically sitting on her head. She grinds her thighs and bottom round and round, appearing to emit a very long, extended jet of wind. Romaine waits patiently in her crouched position.
Ellen climbs off Romaine, wipes the seat of her pants and shakes off her hand.
Ellen pockets her book and takes off her red glasses. Romaine takes off her glasses too as she straightens up.
What's this now?
You need me to explain?
Oh, yes, I doodle do.
I'm imagining a future...where men don't sexually harass me.
I can see that. I can see that!
They both shake their heads agitatedly.
Being taken seriously for the choices I make.
The red lighting returns as the women jig a little.
You're not supposed to talk like that.
Normal lighting alternates with red as the women clap their hands to their hair, their faces, their groins.
That you'd see me as more than my magic eyes.
I have a Porsche, a Polo shirt, a plastic hat.
They jump up, spreading their arms.
Even though I could change the colour of the universe.
They hunch forward, hugging themselves.
I'm bothered, I'm terribly bothered.
Raising one hand daintily to their brows, they tiptoe sideways across the stage, then slump.
Oh, to be seen as more than...lovely.
They jig again.
You're not supposed to talk like that.
At the escalating sounds of babies crying, they freeze with sullen expressions, then exchange a brief glance and stand awkwardly, staring into space.
Sustained red lighting returns and the women turn to each other.
Hey, how are you?
I'm good, how are you?
Yeah, I'm good.
Are you going to Sharon's thing after this?
Yeah.
The women drop to one knee in a classical pose, sweeping their arms upwards as though gathering the air towards their chests.
Our nation is very jerry upset.
They switch sides and make the same move.
Our nation is very jerry upset.
Romaine stands, thrusting her cluster of penises in the face of the kneeling Ellen, who doesn't react.
I've made you. Now you've changed.
Grunting, Romaine circles Ellen, thrusting her penises at Ellen's chest and back, then crouching to squeal in her ear. She piggybacks Ellen, clutching Ellen's red wig.
I don't like it if I don't understand it. I don't understand it if I don't like it.
Normal lighting returns and both women stand up, spreading their arms wide and parading back and forth like showgirls.
I think I want to be a slippery slide. I always had a good time on slippery slides when I was a kid.
They twirl in unison.
No one hated anyone on slippery slides.
Red lighting bathes the stage again and the women stand still, their legs planted wide apart, rolling their torsos in circles.
Don't be ridiculous. People definitely hated people on slippery slides. There was this one particular...
Ellen changes her demeanour and swaggers across the stage with a self-satisfied smile.
Aren't I just the most incredible, miraculous human you ever did meet on a summer night in Texas?
She grins at Romaine, who looks her up and down with a critical eye, then tries to push past her, but Ellen blocks her way repeatedly.
They push against each other in Romaine's struggle to get by, then they slip past each other and stand on opposite sides of the stage, glaring.
Still in red light, they simultaneously take their colour-tinted sunglasses from their pockets and put them on while facing each other.
They turn their heads sharply to the front and leap into a crouching-tiger pose, their fingers curled like claws.
Coloured lights flash over them as they dance a synchronised routine, facing their crouching-tiger pose first to one side then the other, clapping with wide arms and doing high kicks with alternating legs.
Bending forward, they hug their own chests and scissor their knees.
♪ Just us girls ♪
They parade with one arm outstretched, then jump up, dip down and pump their raised knees and fists in the air.
♪ Just us girls ♪
They launch into a line-dancing sequence, their legs spread wide and bent at the knee.
♪ Just us girls ♪
They drop to one knee and then jump up, reaching forwards.
They side-step, pumping their arms up and down, then stretch their jaws like they're chewing gum.
♪ Just us girls ♪
Doing the splits, one slides forwards and one slides back so their bodies are crossed over, then each raises her hands to clap three times for the finale.
Fade to black, then a fade-up to the two women's heads and bare shoulders side by side against the plastic backdrop. The hair and make-up of each mirrors the other - a ponytail on one side of the head, dark lipstick, eyeliner and mascara with glittery gold embellishments on one eye only and on the opposing cheek, and one earring each that is a model human hand with long, dangling fingernails.
They speak solemnly and in unison.
An artist is a child who survives. I'm an artist, I'm still a child, so I win.
The lighting changes through various primary colours as they recite.
It's a celebration no adults are listening. I have all my own love.
Only Ellen speaks next.
I'm always here with me.
They grin at each other, both speaking again.
And you.
Every place I go, I feel more insubordinate, more confident, more childish. I don't play by the rules. I'm rewarded with, "No thanks, sweetie." I run with the birds. I'm rewarded with your superficiality. I scream from the grocery trolley. I'm rewarded with duckie sauce-stained bench tops covered in baby cockroaches, which just means mummy's hiding.
They smile insincerely.
I take a shit on the street.
Ellen speaks alone.
I'm rewarded with loneliness.
They alternate their next lines.
Children...
Sexy...
Then speak together.
..and fuckable don't go together. We don't want to be sold, shampooed or conditioned.
Romaine winks and clicks her tongue while Ellen does a mock-cute shrug.
Blurpies!
Their serious expressions return.A woman is a child who survives. I'm a woman, I'm still a child, so I win.
They smile.
It's a celebration no adults are listening.
Their smiles fade.
BOTH: I suck your stinky, fragile...
Cock.
BOTH: I suck your stinky, fragile...
Cock.
BOTH: I stick it in my loving mouth. I gag, I gag. It tastes like salty, oily donuts in hell. I'm rewarded with more stinky, more fragile, more cock.
Ellen speaks alone next.
There are cocks banging, flinging, flying against my face in every direction I look.
Romaine joins in.
Cocks all over my face. Cocks all over my face. Cocks.
They pause solemnly between each word while the lights phase through different colours.
Cocks. Cocks. Cocks. Cocks. Cocks. Cocks. Cocks. Cocks all over my face.
They both burst into giggles, then open-mouthed laughter.
They look at each other and back to the front, their shoulders shaking as they laugh more and more uproariously.
Their laughter goes on and on through many phases of coloured lights.
After a long time their laughter becomes more weary but they keep going, doubling over with hilarity.
Ellen puts her head in her hands because she's laughing so violently.
At times they lean against each other while sharing the joke.
An abrupt cut to a blank white screen with black text that reads 'A man called cut'.
Artist Statement
Just Us Girls is a sane reaction to the patriarchy – a lamentation against the misogynistic, sexist, binary, conformist behaviour that white gendered males have enacted on me and every woman I know. It is a call to arms to all women to stick together, support and celebrate one another’s confidence and queerness, and rise above the ludicrous patriarchal myths that separate us. We need to stick together in the face of these ragingly inhumane social injustices of inequality, or stay marginalised, repressed and compliant to what the patriarchy wants.
Artist
Ellen Grimshaw, Master of Writing for Performance, 2018
Additional Credits
Romaine McSweeney - Actor
Sidney Miller - Sound
Penelope Peacock - The gold costume
