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Credit: Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
Unseen photos provide a sensitive look at America's early 'working girls'
Dita Von Teese is a burlesque performer, model and author. This is an edited extract from her foreword to "Working Girls: An American Brothel, Circa 1892" by Robert Flynn Johnson.
Women in sexual professions have always distinguished themselves from other women, from the mores of the time, by pushing the boundaries of style. The most celebrated concubines and courtesans in history set the trends in their respective courts. The great dames of burlesque -- Sally Rand, Gypsy Rose Lee -- boasted a signature style on- and offstage, reflecting broader-than-life personalities.
Dita von Teese on the eternal allure of a well-dressed gentleman
Given that photography was still an emerging technology, an emerging creative medium, when these "working girls" posed for William Goldman in the 1890s at a Reading, Pennsylvania brothel, the entire exercise transcends their initial business liaison. The instantaneous concept of click-and-shoot was still decades away. To be photographed required sitting very still. The women featured in Goldman's collection obviously caught his eye. Not just anyone is asked to be the subject of artistic documentation.
Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
The local photographer and his anonymous muses appear to straddle an artful titillation, at times striving toward Degas nudes and at another, more in the spirit of a strip and tease. There is a beauty in even the most mundane moments.
Among Goldman's models, my own gaze zeroed in on the striped stockings and darker shades of their risqué brassieres. These ladies of Reading, Pennsylvania, might not have had the wealth of Madame du Barry, celebrated mistress of Louis XV of France, or the fame and freedom of a silver-screen sex goddess such as Mae West. But they sought to elevate their circumstances, to feel lovelier and more fashionable, with a daring pair of knickers.
Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
To feel special is fundamental to the human condition. Few opportunities outshine a sense of specialness than when an artist asks to record your looks, your beauty. Under the right circumstances, to be the object of admiration -- of desire -- to be what is essentially objectified is not only flattering. It can also provide a shot of confidence and a sense of strength and power and even liberation, however lasting or fleeting.
Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
For these working girls who were already going against the drudgery of toiling in a factory or as a domestic, who were surviving in a patriarchal world by their wits and sexuality, the opportunity to sit for Goldman was very likely not only thrilling. It was also empowering.
One can only imagine the mutual giddiness prevailing among them all, too, at the possible outcome from all these lost afternoon shoots. In a singular image from this collection appears Goldman striking a pose as proud as a peacock. It's one of stock masculinity in the canons of classic portraiture (though usually in military uniform), and like his muses, presented in all his naked glory. By sharing in the objectivity of the process, Goldman basks in the specialness his models must have felt. By stepping around the lens, he becomes a true confidante.
Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
It suggests a balance of power between artist and muse, man and woman -- at least behind closed doors. Their collective decision to strip and strut for the camera reveals a shared lack of shame for the body beautiful and, in that, a shared, albeit secret, defiance of cultural mores.
Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
By all accounts from curator Robert Flynn Johnson's devoted research on this once-lost collection, Goldman seems to have kept his treasured collection as a personal trove. As a successful photographer of weddings and social events, it was most certainly not in his interest for the public to know about his private creative pursuits.
Courtesy Serge Sorokko Gallery/Glitterati Editions
The brothel was a necessary evil in town, where men with certain desires visited women who would oblige. In this case, it was the desire of a man to capture the beauty and sensuality of the women he befriended. There is much to learn and (most of all!) take pleasure in with this discovery.
As these lost photographs illustrate more than a century later, one period's "social problem" is another's cultural revelation.
"Working Girls: An American Brothel, Circa 1892" by Robert Flynn Johnson, with a foreword by Dita Von Teese, is out now.
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By
Alex Myers

Published March 5, 2017 12:30AM (EST)

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Transgender Bathroom Panic

The first time I used a men’s room, I was 17 years old. I looked about 14, probably, with my hair freshly cut short, my head still feeling light and buoyant after getting rid of the ponytail I’d carried through most of high school.
That bathroom was nothing special. In fact, I didn’t see most of it as I walked in, head down and turned slightly away from the line of urinals. I made a beeline for the stalls, which were the same as the stalls in every women’s room I’d ever used in my first 17 years of life.
I peed. I can’t remember if I washed my hands or not. Probably not.
I do remember that there were other men in the room. Two of them. Both at the urinals, and so their backs were toward me when I entered. And maybe they were washing their hands when I was leaving, and that’s why I’m thinking I probably didn’t wash my hands.
The first time I used a men’s room with friends — friends who’d known me from before, friends who’d known me my whole life — I was a few weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. I’d been living as a guy for about a year. Home for the summer from boarding school, that awkward and potent summer between high school and college, I was working as a dishwasher. I’d been back in my hometown for a week or so, and a bunch of us decided to go to the movies together.
Such trips were always a challenge. First, because we all worked odd jobs with odd hours. Second, because none of us owned a car and the nearest movie theater was 40 minutes from our rural Maine town. And, for me, because though I had known these boys since preschool, I had gone away every September for the last four years to a prep school. And also because now at 17 I was, for the first time in my life, a boy.
We went to the movies, five of us crammed into someone’s mom’s sedan. Afterwards, debating Denny’s versus Friendly’s, we veered down the hallway toward the movie theater’s bathrooms. My short hair hadn’t been mentioned — I’d had it short third grade through seventh grade, after all, only growing it out at my mom’s insistence. They’d been calling me Al for years, so I didn’t have to tell them that I’d changed my name from Alice to Alex. And I wore the same t-shirts and jeans and flannel shirts and sneakers that I always wore.
Down that hallway, I thought, which one? Easy enough to just go in the women’s room, give people a dirty look when they scowled at me. It was the mid-’90s. Grunge and androgyny were reasonably widespread, even in the sticks of Maine. But I hated using the women’s room and not just because of being a boy. I hated it because of what was said to me: G et out! Was the nicest version. Other variations included dyke, queer, butch, bitch, creep , once (oddly) faggot and other, unprintable, words.
So I said to my friends, "Do you mind if I use the men’s room with you? Or would that be weird?"
And my best friend Bryan said, "Of course not. It would only be weird if you used the urinal."
I didn’t. In subsequent years, I would think about that — using the urinal. Devices were sold, tricks bandied about in trans groups I went to. Medicine spoons and surgical tubing. The plastic lid to a coffee can (clear plastic is best), trimmed of its edges, could be stowed in the back pocket, lifted out in one’s palm, curled into a funnel and used with care at a urinal. So long as you peed slowly and no one peeked. I practiced a few of these tricks. I got more than one pair of jeans thoroughly piss-soaked. I gave up practicing.
Lately, the news has me thinking back to that first men’s room, 21 years ago , and what drove me to go inside. I never would have entered if I thought I would have been detected, confronted, kicked out.
In fact, I’ll tell you what stands out to me even more than that first men’s room: It's the last time I went into a women’s room. I had come out as transgender to my parents just a few days before. It had gone somewhere in the range of “not a total disaster but not great.” We were out for a meal at my parents’ favorite seafood restaurant. It had not gone well already — the waitress had asked me, “What can I get you, young man?” and an argument had ensued when my parents tried to correct her and I tried to get them to shut up.
Needing to pee, or perhaps just wanting to escape the table, I went over the restrooms. I imagined what would happen if my father happened to also feel the urge at this moment, and what sort of scene might follow if he found me in the men’s room. So I went into the women’s room. At the sinks stood an older woman, who looked at me in the mirror as I entered, her eyebrows shooting up. “This is the ladies!” she said, thoroughly scandalized.
I thought about saying, “I know,” which had been my usual response during those years when I had short hair and people thought I was a boy. But this time, for the last time, I said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m in the wrong place.”
Alex Myers lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two cats. He is a teacher who speaks often at schools across the country about transgender identity. He is also a writer; "Revolutionary," was published by Simon & Schuster in January 2014. It tells the story of his ancestor, Deborah Samson, who in 1782 ran away from home, disguised herself as a man, and fought in the Revolutionary War.

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