I Love the Night Life. I Want to Boogie. aka My Polaroid Love Affair.

"Jesse(aka Juliana) and Suzi Sazuki", Honolu, Hawaii, 1994. Juliana Beasley

This Polaroid was taken in between my half hour dance sets while I was working as a stripper in Hawaii. The club where I worked had once been a theatre complete with faded and worn red velvet chairs bolted to the floor in a half circled amphitheater. In it's present state, the dark and grungy space had barely been renovated or converted to suit the needs or demands of a clientele with more than a couple of hundred dollars to blow on a night of anonymous laughter, smiles and fake intimacy with some woman possibly half their age. Management, at the request of the cheap and wealthy owner, projected vivid, and graphic low end (meaning low budget) porn on the wall and highlighted various "feature dancers" and porn stars who would come to the club and perform for a week at a time. In memory, this club certainly scores in the top three most gruesome shit holes where I had ever worked in the seven or eight odd years as a professional stripper. This, however, has no relation to the amount of  money that I made in this place or any other dive. Actually, it defies it.  

Elated fans would come to see showcased performers and if they had the extra money, they could spend it on a instant photo, personalized with her signature and/or a scribbled flirtatious and salacious comment. They could leave the club with a lasting momento of posing next to or possibly holding their favorite sex starlet in their arms.

Here I posed with Suzi Sazuki, a mid-career porn star from Japan. 

I stood on line like the others waiting for my turn. I didn't pay though. She wouldn't let me. She was nice and her English was close to terrible.

I had dyed my hair blonde with hopes of making more money in the clubs. It's true. Blondes are more in demand in the stripper subculture. That evening, I wore my heavily padded push up bra filled only with the deception and lies of a more fruitful bounty. I also wore wearing a pair of bandana patterned hot hot shorts that I fondly called "my money-makers" since I always made high earnings when I put them on.

I remember that my golden hair glowed like a lightning bug under the black lights. I believed it attracted more attention from the customers--and therefore, made me more earnings--than did my natural dark brown hair. I  learned later in my career when I had reestablished myself as a true brunette that this Barbie logic was indeed not true at all. 

"Anonymous Dancer in Dressing Room", NYC, New York, 1992? Juliana Beasley

I do not remember this anonymous dancer that I photographed with my Polaroid camera. I do remember one thing though. She only worked a week or so in this particular club because she was on the road traveling from one club to the next. One evening, a doorman helped her carry in a large black suitcase into the dressing room. The rest of us stood to the side so she would have enough room to pass through the small space. Finally, she found a small empty corner to stake out as her own and set it down. 

When she opened it I could see that it was filled with expensive looking costumes each one rolled up and wrinkled in careless bundles. I remember that she changed her costumes after each dance set unlike the rest of "house girls" who were to lazy to change our cigarette infused stinky outfits more than twice in an evening. This is one of my first Polaroids taken in a strip club at the beginning of my career as a stripper in 1992. 

"Wanna Dance?", Las Vegas, Nevada, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I took this Polaroid with my Joy Cam in Las Vegas while shooting for my book, "Lapdancer". At the end of 2002, I flew out there, after a quick stop to visit, not only a dear friend, but also to photograph in some of Colorado's "finest" clubs. By this time, my dancing career had already been over for several years. I was on a photo work trip without the benefits of a due salary. I traveled through several states.  I was determined to make some last strong images before my book would be published. I was still fresh and naive and believed that I could make a living as an photographer telling stories through my photographs. 

I planned the classic weekend 24/7 trip to Vegas. I banked on the fact that many clubs--like the casinos--remained open around the clock.  The doors remained perpetually open to eager customers, except for the obligatory occasional few hours when the janitorial service would come in to disinfect mirrors, carpets and chairs with industrial strength cleaning products. 

Soon after I arrived at McCarran Airport, I settled into my room at the Lexor Hotel on the strip. I quickly washed my face and then called around town for the permission to shoot in as many clubs as I could find listed in the Adult Entertainment Trade Guide. Several owners or managers agreed, but most did not.

At this particular club where I took the above Polaroid, they allowed me to come in and photograph both the customers and the dancers in the club, depending on whether each individual agreed to it or not. The club was beautiful; most dancers wore full gowns, inferring that the establishment was "upscale" or otherwise referred to in the business, as a "gentlemen's club". I can still remember two flawless shining black dance stages that reflected a warm glow upon the stripper's bodies from light beams up above.

I also remember seeing a lot of very stocky men wearing enormous cowboy hats and smoking cigars that early spring weekend. 

The two dancers in the Polaroid above were "tag-teaming" or rather, they doubled up in order to hustle a customer into buying a sexy private dance with not only with one girl, but two, and with that the added treat of watching two girls caress one another. 

"Someone Wants Me One Day", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I took this photograph while I was in Fort Myers, Florida. My friend, Lisa introduced me to a strip club that she often frequented as a female customer in her home town. She had also become friends with some of the dancers. The women danced topless only, but were obliged by law to wear a see through tape over their nipples. In the city of Ft. Myers, it was illegal to expose this obviously, obscene part of a woman's body. Dancers were expected to mask their nipples with a flesh-toned tape. Customarily, they would put make-up over the barrier to conceal it, so that it recreated the illusion that conversely, their nipples were indeed exposed.

This dancer allowed me to photograph her. She stood out because she worked with her glasses on. As unusual as this was to typical stripper accessorizing, she wore them. Perhaps, contact lenses irritated her eyes or she just simply fancied them. Maybe she wanted to monopolize the naughty secretary market. I don't know, but I could see that in her case,  it didn't seem to be working for her. The day my friend escorted me to the club, she was idling and standing alone leaning against a table. She wasn't hustling. She wasn't sitting on some customer's lap. She appeared to be in despair. I assumed she couldn't get a private dance or rather, no customer would give her twenty dollars for something more up close and personal. She confided in me that this happened often. Despite this, she was cheerful and very chatty, speaking to me in a thick southern accent.

When I asked her if I could take her portrait, she was surprised.

"Really, " she said. "I'm not that pretty."

Afterwards, I gave her a Sharpie and asked her to write in her own words what she was feeling at that very moment. She wrote possibly with hope and longing, "Some one wants me one day."

"Jolie", Unknown City in Colorado, 2000. Juilana Beasley.

I took this photo out in Colorado. I was staying with a friend who was close to ending her career as a dancer. She had recently moved out there from NYC, but had decided to continue working as a stripper until she was making more money in her chosen professional career in the sciences (She was also intent on buying a home out there before quitting for good). 

I came out to visit with her with two motives: I wanted to reconnect with her and secondly, I wanted to begin finishing Lapdancer.  She drove me out to some anonymous town to a club hidden amongst the evergreens, where she worked part-time. I wanted to ask the management whether or not, I could photograph in the club. I got the thumbs down on photographing the customers, but was allowed to shoot the dancers with their permission only.

This is Jolie. I still don't know why this beat up couch was parked in the club where it had no place. This strange ambiguity made it the perfect place to take a Polaroid of her dressed up in her Lolita-esque majorette skirt.

Why Did They Take My Polaroid Camera Away?

"Pee Wee", Tampa, Florida, 2001. Juliana Beasley

Yes, I know many of you feel the same way.

Just today, I was in a fit of Polaroid inspiration when I looked at Doug Rikard's, (the genius blogger and photographer behind the blog, American Suburb X )  "These Americans".  I was deeply engaged in the Polaroid images of a blonde woman in lingerie, posing for the camera in classic pin-up fashion. The photographs are under the subtitle, "Amateur 1990's".

What I find fascinating about these and other Polaroid images of this genre is simply more than my own natural voyeurism to take a peek at a half-dressed woman, but more specifically, the curious story between subject and photographer. I am left with a feeling of wanting to know about the nature of their relationship. Was the photographer her lover, were these photographs taken to obtain work in the sex industry? These amateur photographs make me consider more the intentions of the person behind the camera than the person in front. And yes, the relationship between the two. I want to know story behind the photo shoot.

"Gypsy Rose", Honolulu, Hawaii, 1997. Juliana Beasley

I am intrigued with the "no pretense reality" of the Polaroids because the lighting is so poor (in particular, flash under florescent lighting) that very few flaws can be hidden, not to mention the poor color correction intrinsic to the film. The scene all looks so cheap, despite the young blonde woman smiling for the camera and the character of her young  innocence it projects. There is a raw sleeziness to the images which also, makes me consider whether or not she was coerced into the photo session. These photos leave me with many questions. Possibly banal and mundane but somehow, I am intrigued and question why these images feel so personal and real, more so than most intimate photographs taken by professionals.

And lastly, Polaroids give me a creepy sensation of death. The subject's mortality is somehow reinforced with the click of the shutter. And yet, I am still drawn to the perverse quality it evokes.

"If you don't know...", Las Vegas, Nevada, 2002. Juliana Beasley

Here are some images from my Polaroid collection from my project "Juliana's Secret Stash". I took these images during the time I was working on my first book, "Lapdancer".  Now and in a previous post on this blog, I have begun to show them. I took these images with the lovely JoyCam. Others were taken by club management with the standard SX-70.

"Someone Wants Me One Day", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002. Juliana Beasley

The concept was simple. As part of the fanfare, strip clubs sometimes offer the customer a Polaroid of themselves with the dancer or "feature dancer" (an erotic performer who has a fan club and following) of their liking. After the Polaroid is taken, the dancer or "feature dancer" signs something titillating at the bottom with a Sharpie. The customer then can return home with with this souvenir, a piece of memorabilia of the night in the club with their favorite performed. I decided to photograph the dancers alone on their free time with my JoyCam and simply asked them to write down what they were thinking at that very moment. I wanted to see expose the reality of what they were really thinking, beyond the cliched commentary reflecting the mundane "sexy" things they normally wrote at the bottom of the Polaroid on the white border.

"Fucked Up", Ft. Myers, Florida, 2002. Juliana Beasley

I wanted my own box of memorabilia from my stripper days. Whenever, there was an opportunity to be photographed with a sex industry celebrity, I stood on-line with the other customers and waited my turn.

I am Your Biggest Fan!

"Self Portrait as Nico. Counting Money in Dressing Room", 1995

In the winter of 1995, I was sitting on the cold tile floor of the dressing room in a strip club in Rockland County. I was doing what I did every night--counting my money midway through my 4pm to 4am shift. I was tired. I needed a dancer's working vacation in the sun. I set my sights on Hawaii since my friend, Kaylani and a friend of hers named Bella were going out there anyway. I had my dark hair cut into a bob and had it perfectly tinted a shade of blond that realistically matched the color of my olive skin or at least I thought so. I decided to go from the harsh east coast stage name of "Nico" to the softer and more cutesy name "Jesse" to fit my new hairdo.

Over the next 10 months, I flew back and forth from NYC to Honolulu about 3 times, breaking up my time between the two cities as if I was living between two neighboring states. For months at a time, I lived out of an inexpensive high rise hotel with a weekly rate on the less touristy side of Waikiki.

It was sunny everyday in Hawaii with the classic rainbow over beautifully volcanic chiseled mountains and yet, my mood remained as sallow as the color of the room where I lived. With or without my dangling chili pepper lights, candles, incense and the magazine cut outs, that I had plastered all over the walls to make it feel more homey, my days before running off to work felt like I was living in solitary. In a room, full of beige and orange interwoven cushions on furniture to match the variant bedspread, I felt the lingering presence of some malicious hotel interior designer who thought it would be the most practical to maintain an aura of hideous ennui for many many years to come.

The following Polaroids are bits of my personal treasure-trove, memories of working in a "theatre" strip club in a strip mall on Kapiolani.

Two of the photos are from Queens and New Jersey, but all have one theme in common. I decided to have a "fan photo" taken with various feature dancers as a mimicry of customers who often paid for the same service, in order to take a token of the nights evening, and the dancer, away and home with them.

"Nico and Scandalous in New Jersey", 2006.

"Jesse and Minka", Hawaii, 1995

"Jesse, Braven and Unknown Feature Dancer", Hawaii, 1995

"Jesse and Unknown Feature #2", Hawaii, 1995.

"Jesse and Unknown Feature #3", Hawaii, 1995.

"Nico and the Ray Sisters", Queens, NYC, (1993?).

"Jesse with Unknown Feature Dancer #4", 1995.

The following is an excerpt from my book, "Lapdancer" from powerHouse Books, 2003.

"The stripper lifestyle has its own comforting and predictable routine. Sleeping until 11:00 a.m. (or later, as the week progresses), I drag my tired body out of bed across my studio apartment. A sore body is a reminder of a night well spent, money made, counted, and stashed in forever changing hiding places. Mysteriously browned and callused knees and elbows offer further evidence of my nightly pursuits. Some mornings, I awake still brooding over a night when I have fallen below my average, and berate myself for my lack of motivation on the job or some other possible personal defect that might explain falling short of my quota.


A shower would follow, then a walk into the daylight to a local restaurant where I would sit alone, ponder my future, and reward myself with a sensible non-fattening meal in my trendy Manhattan neighborhood. I hardly had time to hand wash my costumes. They smell of cigarettes, sweat, and the sweet perfumes customers complement me on. Instead I opt for a nap, awake, pop three Advil, and an hour later pick up a double espresso on the run, toting my work duffel bag filled with my best moneymakers—a tight leopard-print dress, a silver Brazilian bikini, a sequined mini, and stiletto heels. One might have thought I was just another ballet dancer running off to a class in the middle of the day.

At first it was buses, trains, and taxis; then later, private drivers like Aman, the yellow cabbie who doubled as my therapist, forever bolstering my spirits like a trainer with his boxer before entering the ring. We would make the usual stops: coffees, brownies, bottles of Jack Daniels. Several blocks before arriving at the designated club, I would let out a sigh. No, I don’t want to go. I’m too tired. I’m sick of the men and I’m even sick of the girls.

He teases me, “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” I reply.

Next came Aramis, the crazy-eyed driver from Uruguay who charged less than Aman, but with him there would always be the risk of getting into some sort of collision, like the time we hydroplaned across three lanes on the Westside Highway, hit a marker on the side of the road, and flipped his Suburban. But the price was right and I was determined to keep expenses low, even at the risk of dying next to a man whose conversational skills consisted of “Hi, Nico.”
The structure I’d created for myself was satisfying for the most part because I immediately saw the results of my hard labor. Here I was, an unskilled worker, earning double what my friends in “straight” jobs were making.


I loved the music, dancing on stage, and the instant connections I made with fellow dancers—and at times, even with customers. For eight hours on nights I danced, I was taking a break from my own complex and contradictory life. In reality I rarely dreaded going to work, unlike with other jobs I had had in the past. Dancing felt emotionally cathartic, empowering, and at times just like another creative extension of myself. I developed my dancing style partially by mimicking other dancers and partly through trial and error. I performed five days a week to a normally adoring public. Sometimes it felt like being a rock star, or what I imagined being a rock star might feel like: discounts on hotels, personal drivers, and makeup."