Being Conchita Read online

  I chose Donatella because I adore her, and because I was able, through her, to give expression to my thoughts. It’s the same with Conchita. The shapeshifter is there to give form to something that’s missing. When things get all solemn and serious, and people run the risk of becoming too serious out of sheer awe at the importance of what’s going on in the world around them, being unable to think for themselves, what’s needed is something joyful that can surprise you, in the guise of a jester or clown. The Lakota Indians had their Heyoka, a man who always did the opposite of everything. When he said ‘yes’, he meant ‘no’, and when he said ‘hello’, he meant ‘goodbye’. He sat on a horse the wrong way round, and, at rituals, he imitated the shaman by turning everything upside down. And what was the point of it all? To show the people that there was another side of the coin. That they should take a look at that side of things as well.

  So while everyone was losing their head in revelry at Halloween, a stern shapeshifter disguised as Donatella was just what was needed. Because life is not a one-way street: there’s always traffic in the opposite direction. Of course, there was a rapturous welcome for me when I finally revealed my true identity. The stunt had served its purpose. Despite all the fun we had, there was also a serious side. That’s how I see it whenever Conchita takes to the stage: the audience enjoys the show, but if they can go home with a few new ideas – a memory stored in the back of their brain, ready to be brought out one day to prevent an insult, an act of discrimination or worse – then I’ve done my job. I believe in a strategy of small steps that lead ultimately to something much greater. If the constant drip, drip, drip can hollow out the rock, then every party, every celebration, every show is worthwhile.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  ‘I’ve seen blue skies

  Through the tears in my eyes

  And I realise I’m going home’

  FROM THE MUSICAL THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

  Vienna is now my home, my haven, to which I’m always glad to return. Yet Bad Mitterndorf, the scene of my childhood paradise, is the place that formed me. I turned my back on it at the age of fourteen, not entirely of my own free will, and now, a dozen years on, I made my way back there, once again not entirely of my own free will. Of course, I wanted to celebrate with the people who’d always supported me. I sensed a need to pay my respects to those who’d been on the edges of their seats in front of their TVs. And I wanted to say an especially warm thank you to the people who’d made their way from Bad Mitterndorf to Schwechat airport in Vienna to be there when I arrived. So far, so good. Nevertheless, I found it difficult to get into my car to drive the less than 300 kilometres.

  A trauma, I was recently informed by a friend who knows about these things, is a psychological condition that can periodically re-occur to cause the same symptoms as those originally experienced. That’s how I felt at the thought of returning to the scene of my childhood. It was as if I’d been transformed back in time to age fourteen and was forced to listen once again to everything the less-than-enlightened people from my former hometown had had to say about me.

  Although it wasn’t the first time I’d travelled from Vienna to Bad Mitterndorf, going there as Conchita was a new experience for me. Despite having won the Eurovision Song Contest, I couldn’t help asking myself: how will they receive me? What’ll happen if the homophobes are still around? What if they disrupt the event? Perhaps they’ll be so mad about my success they’ll attack me? The worst possible scenarios kept going through my mind – I couldn’t help it. Goethe’s Faust speaks of ‘two souls in my breast’, and that’s exactly how I felt that day. One of my souls wanted to return to the paradise of my childhood, relive the things that had been so worth experiencing: running along with happiness by my side on hot summer days, jumping across streams, coming home hot, hungry and thirsty and picking my favourite meal off the menu. My other soul remained cool and vigilant. Forget the romanticism, it told me, the past is the past, there’s nothing left there for you to see, hear, feel or taste; there were many who didn’t like you, just don’t fool yourself that anything will have changed. But I’ve been invited, insisted my other soul, there’s going to be a celebration, they’re setting up a stage, the park’s being closed off, I’ll be performing with the band and singing with the local choir. They even want to make me an honorary citizen.

  ‘The question is,’ my distrustful soul went on, ‘why did you need to win for them to do that? Don’t you want everyone to be fairly treated, whoever they are and whatever they do?’ That was a question to which I had no answer. Actually, I did have the answer, it was ‘yes, I do,’ but, at that moment, I wouldn’t admit it. Otherwise I’d have had to cancel. I couldn’t do that, nor did I want to.

  Perhaps change comes about when you deliver the proof of something. In my early years, there were many people who thought that I, being gay, could never achieve anything in life. That’s one of the many misjudgements most homosexuals suffer from. How is anyone who’s so feeble and weak ever going to make it? But perhaps the boneheads will change their attitude once the unimaginable happens? ‘Oops! I was wrong. Perhaps I should reconsider?’ Granted, that sounds pretty naive, like wishful thinking. Then again, nothing ventured, nothing gained. That was as true in this case as in any other sphere of life, and it became my main reason for tackling one of the most difficult days in my life: returning to Bad Mitterndorf.

  I was received like a queen, a president, a superstar. The whole town turned out, and those in charge did everything to make me feel at home. Unfortunately, as humans we often have a distorted perception of reality: we hear the loudmouths, even when they’re in the minority, and forget that the majority hold a different opinion. You can’t see people who are in the dark, so the saying goes – and if the majority fail to open their mouths, they remain in the dark. On the day I returned to Bad Mitterndorf, things were different: now it was the majority that were most visible – and they liked me. The boneheads stayed at home and vented their frustration on the internet. I could see, hear, feel and taste that the people who’d turned out were honestly proud of me, accepted me as a human being and not as the one who was ‘different’. Even so, I kept having to get a grip on myself, because my vigilant soul wouldn’t allow me to relax, even though the thousands of photos taken that day tell a different story.

  It was a rollercoaster ride, a flood of constantly changing emotions that sometimes threatened to drown me, like when I took to the stage with my childhood friend Kristin and we sang the song that many years before had transported us off to another and, as we thought, better world: ‘California Dreamin” by the The Mamas and the Papas. The words ‘I could leave today, California dreamin’, on such a winter’s day’ had become our mantra; I could leave today, a sentence I’d clung on to.

  Then there was another, joyful moment I could never have dreamt of: me on stage with my grandmother. Isn’t life crazy? She’d been such a huge influence, both before and after my coming-out. Her life motto isn’t criticism, but openness, so I was deeply moved to have the honour of standing next to her while the spectators applauded.

  The second song I sang that day, accompanied by my cousins on piano, was ‘Unbreakable’. It’s another anthem of mine. ‘She finds it hard to trust someone, she’s heard the words cause they’ve all been sung, she’s the girl in the corner.’ As I sang, I was thinking to myself: who knows whether, among all the spectators out there, there isn’t a boy or a girl who’s being forced into the corner because they’re different and can’t find their way in the world. How would I have felt if a Conchita had turned up one day, cheered on by the masses? What impression would it have left on me? How much stronger would I have felt afterwards?

  Since I’m now aware of how important role models are, I identify even more strongly with outsiders as soon as I take to the stage. On this day, I was thinking of all the little Toms who exist just as much today as they did back then, and who perhaps went home with a stronger se
nse of self-belief after the concert. Next up was the song ‘That’s What I Am’, performed together with the local choir in traditional costume, and, of course, ‘Rise Like a Phoenix’, with the accompaniment of the town band. After that, I was awarded my honorary citizenship by the mayor, Dr Karl Kaniak. By that point, I definitely thought I must be dreaming. The town had awarded two honorary citizenships to date, one to the popular author Hans Fraungruber and the other to skiing pioneer Theodor Karl Holl – and now me, Conchita Wurst, the bearded female singer, drag queen, and political activist. Unbelievable!

  And as if that wasn’t enough, the town even went one better: a commemorative plaque was to be erected in the town centre, bearing the words I spoke after my victory in Copenhagen: ‘This night is dedicated to everyone who believes in a future of peace and freedom. You know who you are – we are unity and we are unstoppable’.

  My parents’ restaurant is always a busy place, as they’re wonderful hosts. Yet the Song Contest took things to a new level, and there were now people everywhere. Fortunately, my mother has her kitchen under perfect control, while my father is virtually unflappable. As long as he still has time for his hobby – making ornate cribs – he can keep things running even when the place is bursting at the seams. My mother told me that Conchita fans from Mexico and other parts of the world had travelled to Bad Mitterndorf to visit the birthplace, la casa natal, la maison natale, la casa natia of Ms Wurst – only to learn that I’d actually been born a few hundred kilometres further away. ‘They had a good time anyway,’ said my mother, and I bet they also enjoyed their food.

  When I returned to Vienna some time later, my head was still spinning with all the things I’d just experienced. On the other hand, the two souls in my breast had calmed down. My vigilant, cool soul was soothed by the warmth shown to me by the people of Bad Mitterndorf, while the soul that dreamt of my childhood paradise was exhausted, yet happy. At some point during all the goings-on, I’d said, ‘Childhood, that was the time before I went to school,’ and who’s to say how many of today’s children feel the same, because, a few days later, it was once again time for the loudmouths to raise their ugly voices, their responses being inevitable – ranging from, ‘I’m off, Bad Mitterndorf will never see me again’, to this message in misspelt Styrian dialect: ‘Es is jo eh scho so zum schama gwesen das des objekt zum contest hod foan derfm (Why did we have that “thing” representing us at the ESC? What a bloody disgrace!).’

  Too bad. If Conchita Wurst didn’t polarise opinion, what’d be the point of her? It’s only by giving the loudmouths something to mouth off about that we know they still exist, and that our mission hasn’t yet been accomplished.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  KIDS? KIDS!

  ‘When we’re in public together,

  I hear society moan’

  FROM THE MUSICAL CABARET

  ‘If I was a hetero, you’d be the woman I’d want to have children with.’

  It’s not the kind of thing you can say to just any woman. But to my friend Anja, I can. She’s heard me say it loads of times. Anja is the cousin of Matthias, my brilliant hair stylist, and whenever she meets my mother, she greets her with the words, ‘Hello, mother-in-law!’ Anja will get married one day, and then she’ll be able to say the same words to her real mother-in-law. But, until that day comes, we’ll continue to enjoy our little joke. It’s when you start exploring how things are in reality that it turns more serious. The difference between tolerance and acceptance is often reflected in the debate over children. Although many people are now tolerant of gays and lesbians, accepting them as parents is another matter. One of the most harmless questions is ‘How on earth is that supposed to work?’ This is followed by: ‘But which of you is really the child’s mother or father?’ Then there’s ‘It can’t work’, which raises doubts about the child’s upbringing. Finally, there’s ‘God forbids it’, an expression of the fundamentalist ‘no’.

  According to an opinion poll for the European Commission, Austria is one of Europe’s most tolerant countries when it comes to gays and lesbians, with as many as forty-nine per cent of my compatriots being in favour of same-sex marriage, while forty-four per cent have nothing against child adoption by same-sex couples. Homosexual couples have been allowed to marry since 2010 – not in church, of course, but at least at a registry office. The presiding official, however, doesn’t utter the standard, ‘I hereby pronounce you husband and wife’. Instead, the marriage becomes lawful once the couple have signed their names in the book. For some, this difference in procedure is irrelevant, but others take a different view.

  Joint adoption has been allowed since 2013. ‘Rainbow family’ is the colloquially used term, even in cases where a gay or lesbian couple have gone down the route of artificial insemination in order to fulfil their wish for a child. Incidentally, such children normally do very well. More than that, they often do better than in other families. Why is this the case? The reason is that, in a rainbow family, children don’t just ‘happen’. They’re genuinely wanted, because there are many hurdles to overcome, at both the bureaucratic and social level. It’s something that only people who really want a child are ready to go through.

  And what about me? I can’t say. Whenever I meet Anja, we give each other a hug, and I tell her with a smile, ‘If I was hetero, you’d be the woman I’d want to have children with.’ We have a laugh about it, while at the same time sensing the poignancy of it all, because, one of these days, when Anja gets married, the sentence will have to be struck from my vocabulary.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  PIERRE AND GILLES

  ‘Paris loves lovers, for lovers it’s heaven above Paris tells lovers, love is supreme, wake up your dream and make love’

  FROM THE MUSICAL SILK STOCKINGS

  Paris had me again. To be honest, Paris always will. Vienna is my home, I like the energy of London, while Copenhagen signifies freedom. But it’s Paris that stands for love. Haute Couture Week was coming to a close, and all of us were still under tremendous pressure. Now France’s Vogue magazine had invited me to its gala dinner, where Jean Paul Gaultier introduced me to his boyfriend, Konstantinos Katalakinos. Ever the romantic, I immediately wanted to know where the two of them had met. Jean Paul smiled. ‘I suppose,’ he began, ‘it was when I invited him to my show.’

  ‘And that was it? Come on, couldn’t you come up with something more original than that?’

  Jean Paul shrugged his shoulders impishly. ‘But that’s how it was.’

  ‘That one can only work when your name is Gaultier!’

  ‘What was I supposed to do, my young empress? I didn’t have anything else up my sleeve. He didn’t even know I was there!’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ Konstantinos chipped in. ‘That’s not true. You were surrounded by people, all of them talking to you at the same time …’

  I laughed. Here I was again with the most exciting fashion designer of our age, and it was as if we saw each other every day. Despite that, I’d shocked even myself with my boldness, not that it seemed to bother Jean Paul. And as Conchita is an incredibly nosy lady, the conversation continued in the same vein.

  ‘What about you, Konstantinos,’ I went on. ‘What do you do when you’re not looking glamorous at gala dinners?’

  Of course, I knew he worked as a model and stylist, but his reply certainly livened up the conversation. ‘I’m Jean Paul’s boyfriend,’ he said. ‘That’s work enough.’

  We talked about the future, and that meant: Crazy Horse. A name to make the heart skip a beat. It’s one of the last of the famous revue theatres in the city of light, which blazed a trail with the Moulin Rouge, the Lido, the Paradis Latin and the Folies Bergère. Situated in the best part of town on Avenue George V, the Crazy Horse was established in the early 1950s by Alain Bernardin. Today, the director is Andrée Deissenberg. I’d already met her and had been amazed to find that I could speak German with her.

  Andrée had laughed. ‘“Franchouillard”, is wha
t the customers say, meaning “typically French”: that’s the Crazy Horse. Not even a German director can change that.’ She told me about how she’d worked twelve years at the Cirque du Soleil, the world-famous circus founded over thirty years ago and now run by the Canadian street artist Guy Laliberté. ‘You know, it’s got neither a circus ring nor performing animals. Instead, it has these sensual, crazy, breathtaking shows. We were forever on tour, and travelled halfway round the world. It was there that I learned show business from the bottom up.’

  I wanted to know what role a revue theatre could play in an age when eroticism is often just a mouse click away. How do you create a scintillating atmosphere when people have already seen everything? I liked what Andrée had to say in reply: ‘With imagination. We show them that women are art. And that’s where you come in.’

  The Crazy Horse regularly puts on special shows featuring illustrious guests such as the fashion icon Dita von Teese and the French character actress Clotilde Courau. But something it had never had before was a bearded and very feminine woman, barbu et très féminin, as the French media later put it. Jean Paul Gaultier would lend me a dress, and I’d have three other exceptional costumes at my disposal. Andrée was able to dispel my greatest fear: ‘But I’m not a dancer!’

  ‘Oh, we’ve already got enough of those. And they’re good, believe me!’

  Andrée was right. Anyone looking to succeed as a dancer at the Crazy Horse needs classical ballet or dance training. That’s followed by three months of further intensive training, and only then is the stage open for performers such as Viola Waterloo, Taïna de Bermudes, Lava Stratosphere, Loa Vahina and Jade Or. These are the stage names of the dancers, all of whom are between 168 cm and 172 cm tall. As Andrée was giving me a tour of the theatre, we happened to walk past an old-fashioned looking machine.