Petroleum Jelly and Ice Cream

A response to Tender’s Pride Block Party and ‘Distortion,’ Dublin Modular’s 5th Anniversary ‘Hi-Five’ event

by Tara McGinn

When I go to open my dictionary app, I always click on the calculator instead, as if my brain assumes logic is a language too. I look up what “modular” means because I’ve convinced myself that I’ve been using it in the wrong context. I learn the origin in Latin, modulus, is used in mathematics to refer to “the positive square root of the sum of the squares of the real and imaginary parts of a complex number.”  Its modern meaning refers to construction methods; that something is made up of modules, or parts, within a whole. I like this analogy; that tangible constructs represent both real and imaginary elements; a virtual and an actual. Fictions embedded in real outcomes, or real people embodied in fictions. It resonates with how pop culture moulds online identity, while simultaneously influencing the shape of an offline reality.

It’s very BRAT – the recent persona of pop star Charli XCX perpetuated through the repeated images and videos that bombard my feed this summer. A monument of pop consumerism symbolised by pixelated Arial text on an acid green background. Crop tops, brushed eyebrows, chunky vapes, and clear lip gloss in a miasma of short video snippets with bouncy basslines and crunchy soundbites. The remixes and title tracks became earworms before I had even heard the full album. It’s all aimed at the “girlies,” the queers and the cool kids who both can and can’t afford to buy into this image for fun or clout. Hot girl summer, Barbie Summer and now another annual Instagram trend claiming what kind of summer it is. The FOMO marketing of BRAT operates seamlessly within the canon of the party girl on social media that everyone can pretend they are friends with.

The Irish summer, alternately, feels clammy with unbearable humidity and sore joints. BRAT and it’s the same, but you’re working freelance as an artist in a small city, so it’s not. Old sweatpants, a tie-dye t-shirt, half-dead plants, and scrolling on my phone for hours out of disassociation. The algorithmic habit of feeding my online alter-ego leaves my reality feeling like a lacklustre stage setting. Through this, I unwillingly create a serotonin dependency on a virtual self, who doesn’t even look like me.

* 

The journey into town was quiet until they reached Capel Street, where the hum of the crowds could be heard before they were seen. A wall of gardaí stood as an unwanted presence in contrast to the buzzing, fuming, and raging energy spilling out of Panti Bar. Around the corner, past the alley that everyone had adopted as a pissing post, the music lead in the right direction. At the barricade draped in plastic, a security guard stamped a black mark on their wrist, branding them for entry.

The day had been wet, full of pictures flooding their stories with streams of stringy hair stuck to people’s foreheads under raincoat hoods. It had now cleared to a balmy dusk, perfect for the outdoor party that was bubbling away beyond the sparkling mob, a popular Belfast DJ behind the decks.

They immediately felt overdressed. Bodies cavorted around in high heels, chunky trainers and heavy leather boots, with full flares of flesh on display. Nostalgia glam was everywhere, with whalebone thongs riding toned hips that contrasted baggy trousers and mesh vests. Sunglasses hooded everyone’s eyes, even as the party moved indoors – the BRAT summer look. They felt a little more at ease when they found a friend, rolling a cigarette and sporting cotton ADIDAS shorts and old trainers, aligning softly with their own green Wranglers and holy Lidl runners.   

* 

The worst part is the expectation – the teenage excitement instilled from my first going out experiences. In that era, the ‘sad white girl on Tumblr’ look, or the Effy from Skins aesthetic, were the ones to go for. Back then, I had innocent hopes the night would transport me from my small rural town, like the magical narratives of my favourite films. Instead, I was haunted by creeps that pervaded those spaces and the suffocating heteronormativity of small-town life – even long after I left.

 This primed me for disappointment, and now, in my late 20s, after coming to terms with my sexual orientation and my gender identity, I feel like I’ve had to grow up twice. Re-learning the types of experiences I expect and remaining open to what I genuinely desire aren’t one and the same. Partying has long been synonymous with queer identity shaped by the political history of queer liberation and rights. What were once illegal spaces are now out in the open, commodified with brand-driven queerness for the sake of surviving in a community-crushing economy.

With the rain outside, I’m bedroom dancing on the stage in high heels and partying to boiler room sets in Ibiza. It’s the fantasy of the party that energises me, not the actual parties, which can leave me exhausted, hungover and socially spent – rainbow flag or not.

*

They aren’t quite sure why their hands are shaking, it’s not their first time, and certainly not an unsafe space. Is too much safety suddenly not fun? Is feeling ‘too safe’ the reason why they came in here? They didn’t need to pee but easily could’ve done this in a dark corner. The music hums and thumps through the bathrooms, interspersed melodically by snorts coming from inside the other cubicles.

The queue was long, sparking pre-dab nerves, but it moved quickly as people paired up and disappeared behind the blue plastic doors. The large, dark, opaque of the dance floor was starkly brought back into focus by the clinical fluorescent light of the bathrooms, another oddly unsettling additive to the anxiety. The person behind them – a stranger in a glossy bikini top, baseball cap, low-rise jeans and silver eyeshadow – asked if they were a DJ at another event. They briefly considered lying, fabricating an alternative identity just for fun. They’d never see this person again anyway…but no, not a good idea. They wouldn’t be able to see the lie through and would feel like an asshole afterwards.

A few crystals, wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, go down easily, and the heartbeat in their ears simmers down as they return to the main chamber of noise and sweat. Bodies, glowing with effervescent colours; hot pink, bubblegum pink, fuchsia pink, barbie pink, shampoo pink, nail polish pink; a pink-on-pink-on-pink melting pot. A dancer with two long acid-green plaits dressed neck to toe in black latex performs like a siren behind the scaffolding above the audience.

They take out their phone to record, capturing something to send to their friend or to share online; a collection of silhouettes who writhe, kiss, twist and tesselate. But they change their mind about sending it. Their heartbeat lifts again, aligning with the BPM this time, and warmth spreads through their face, hands and feet. They sway, closing their eyes and melt into an amorous lens through which they view their surroundings. Anxiety sits quietly at the bar, scrolling through the deluge of images already appearing in their feed from the party happening right next to them. 

*

I look up the word tender. To be tender is to show gentleness, kindness, or affection; to be easy to cut, sensitive to pain, in need of protection, or vulnerable. There is also a nautical use, where a ship is ready to respond to the impact of the wind. The word is pliable, adaptable to many contexts, swirling through genres like a DJ set, and encompassing queerness – that withholds agency but is open to change.

Leaving the party early is just as enjoyable as walking into it, a natural step away from the “party girl” era, and I’m finally okay with that. In my early twenties, FOMO kept me in places I didn’t want to be in for lack of anywhere safer to go. Now, I open Instagram and see the posts of Charli XCX celebrating her 32nd birthday – mine is less than a year away. A squishy birthday cake covered in multicoloured blobs of frosting looks like a glossy Vaseline dessert. Black lilies, cigarettes and A-list IT girlies posing in sunglasses indoors; originally intended to cover up dilated pupils, now fit seamlessly into BRAT’s Berghain club aesthetic. The flash is on, emulsified skin, seductive but passive expressions, and dead eyes. I wonder if she’s bored yet of her own songs played on repeat everywhere. I’ve seen these pictures before; personal advertisements disguised as personal reflections, or a personality, the behavioural symptom of being online nowadays.

I close the app and open my window instead. There is no music, just the patter of drops in the outside gutter of my window ledge. Struggling with identity is difficult enough without social media gamifying it. It’s the place that invites you to the party while leaving you outside it, gaslighting you into believing you’re having a good time, whilst feeling nothing. I pick up my phone, point the camera at the mirror and see myself – repeated rather than reflected.

*

Lips are glossy, skin shimmering with glitter, and Lycra oozes like liquid metal, giving bodies the appearance of being as moist as a tongue. They are transfixed. A singer with mermaid red hair finishes their set, announcing the next song was inspired by a trip to visit her friend in Swords where they saw there was nothing there. Her friend screamed joyfully in reply, and the crowd cheered before the silence dropped into an electronic melody of sickly-sweet auto-tune and crispy sound effects layered over the drum and bass.

The night blurs into frantic bouts of dancing, smoke breaks to wipe off sweat, and brief hellos to acquaintances from Dublin, or Paris, or was it Belfast? They chug cold water from large plastic cups, teeth stinging, the inner lining of their mouth still resembling paper. They didn’t really know anyone at the party, not in a close way, not in a way where they could melt into someone’s shoulder when the whitey hit. Anxiety stood up from the bar, getting right in their face. Was it a panic attack? Or just the sensation of their brain rejecting everything they were feeling, and replacing it with embarrassment, self-consciousness and guilt?

Inhaling felt like mouthfuls of sand, and exhaling was a threat to puke in front of everyone. They held their own hand, closed their eyes, and reminded themselves that nothing here that nothing here could hurt them. They didn’t have to stay. They found their jacket in a pile of coloured polyester, faux fur and ripped denim, a surprisingly easier retrieval compared to most cloakrooms.

They said goodbye to the security guard as they left, waved to no one in particular in the crowd, crossed the street, and wandered slowly to the bus stop, pausing only to buy water and a tub of gum. The yellow streetlamp glowed as warmly as the mid-summer evening that still held traces of the petrichor from earlier. When the bus pulled up, they caught sight of their saucer-like pupils reflected in the glass door. They smiled to themselves and sat down. They decided not to share the video they’d taken earlier, not out of shame (for once), but simply because they didn’t care if anyone knew they had been there.

There will be other parties, disappointments and obsessions, they assured themselves, stepping off onto cold concrete and a silent suburban street. They put their headphones on, hit play on 360, and let Charli walk them the rest of the way home.

Tara McGinn is the inaugural MLP x The Complex writer in residence.
Tender Pride Block Party took place on Saturday, 29 June at The Complex.
To mark its fifth anniversary, Dublin Modular held 'Distortion', the first in a series of five 'Hi-Five' events, on Saturday, 20th July at The Complex.