Antara Wells will be Marilyn Monroe tonight. But the one waiting now, behind the door, wearing large black glasses and grinning from ear to ear, as if it weren't Monday morning, is Pablo. It's eleven o'clock, and he's just dropped off the classic white Marilyn Monroe dress at the dry cleaners. He needs it for the evening because a friend is celebrating and he has to put on a show. He walks firmly down the building's hallway, like someone who always knows where he's going, makes his way without losing his charm, and the magic begins: reciting fragments of his own fame. 

Marilyn Monroe's white dress passed through several bodies before reaching him; it's made of stretchy fabric and fits all sizes. He first wore it on stage 29 years ago, on a Friday night in 1995. Then everything changed. 

—There was never a fat Marilyn. But at that time, I wasn't much into imitations. I liked having my own interpretations, my own character, which was Antara. I wanted to be me, not imitate someone else.

Since I was a child 

"Doña María have anything she can spare?" a trans woman asks a lady who is arriving at her house holding her grandson's hand in Pasaje Revol, in the heart of Güemes, in the Argentine province of Córdoba. 

The boy watches her, her waist stifled by a belt, her buttocks squeezed beneath the fabric, her long, shiny, and luxurious hair. His grandmother comes in to get clothes, food, or medicine, whatever she always has on hand for the girls who work on the corner of her house on Cañada and Achával Rodríguez streets. 

Every day, Doña María welcomes 14 grandchildren who disperse among the rooms of the home. The sixth, Pablo Maldonado, was born on January 3, 1974. He is the son of a traditional radical Córdoba lineage. His mother, Ángela Domínguez, works at the Ministry of Public Works. His father, Aníbal Palacio, works at the Córdoba Retirement Fund. Across the street from his grandmother's house, a recently opened Paseo de las Artes filled his free time with painting, ceramics, and craft workshops. Theater, the circus, and musical performances were the family's home on weekends. 

— One summer weekend, we went to Villa Carlos Paz. My dad was going to see Los Chalchaleros with some uncles, and my mom didn't want to go, so we went out for a walk. We ended up at the New York City—a famous shopping mall with children's games right on the pedestrian street. There was a basement in the basement, where they had shows. My mom saw a sign that said "Divas Night." We left the games and the show was starting. It was the Strass Group, who came to perform, half-hidden. It was my first encounter with drag queens. I saw Marilyn Monroe, Josephine Baker, Marlene Dietrich, and Barbra Streisand. I was 9 years old. 

In the early 1990s, the Dr. Agustín Garzón Agulla Normal School required its students to choose between vocational workshops to attend twice a week outside of school. Pablo wasn't good with a typewriter, so he ruled out typing; he wasn't good at opening bugs, so he ruled out taxidermy; but he was good at being others, so he chose theater. The workshop could only be repeated for two years, but he took it from ages 13 to 16, with the permission of his teacher, although behind the scenes: he directed, assisted, and produced. At 18, after a promotion, Pablo didn't say goodbye to school; he was asked to be an assistant in the theater workshop. He stayed for four more years, with pay included. 

The '90s

Pablo is always in the places where intensity takes over, putting his foot down minutes before the climax. In the '90s, in Córdoba, those places were clubs. Hangar 18 is one of them, operating between 1995 and 2005 in an industrial warehouse located in the area of ​​the former Mercado de Abasto. Sundays featured electronic music, Saturdays featured a gay crowd, and Fridays featured a mix of straight and gay audiences. He started from the back, producing.

A fat Marilyn, a singer dressed in military uniform, and a hostess in full dress are about to appear on the stage of Piaf, a nightclub in the San Martin neighborhood, one Friday night in 1995. Pablo is having his first time. 

Now, sitting upright in a chair, barely moving, without drinking water, Pablo talks nonstop about his own life. He's the protagonist, but there are secondary characters who taught him the discipline and conduct of his profession: Jorge Molina is one of them. 

—He had just returned from five years at Mario House, a house in Camboriú dedicated to drag as a performance. He arrived with a monstrous background—a choreographer, dancer, and actor—all of which got him into drag. He was a ticking time bomb, a master of masters. He had come from working in the first drag group formed in Argentina, Grupo Strass.

One Thursday night in 1995, Jorge—on stage—and Pablo—behind the stage—rehearse with the cast for a benefit gala for Hospital Clínicas and Hospital Rawson, which care for people with HIV. A white brick with an antenna begins to buzz. Jorge answers his cell phone and is told that his mother is very ill. 

"I'm getting off the boat, but Pablo will be steering the ship. He's the only person who will blindly take my place. He knows everything there is to do, he can wear my clothes, and he has enough stage presence to pull this off," Pablo says Jorge said. The show is the next day. 

That Friday, a friend does her eyebrows, another friend does her mouth, and another helps her with her wig. Her brother-in-law, an air force pilot, hands her four military uniforms. Wearing the white dress, which stretches, she brings Marilyn Monroe to the stage. She dresses as a soldier and is one of the Star Sisters, one of the singers who went to the Vietnam War to sing to the soldiers. Fishnet stockings, black shoes, and a military jacket like a dress with a military cap, without a wig. Like Dixie Leonard, a 1940s actress and singer who joins Eddie Sparks, a famous artist, to entertain American troops in the film For the Boys. And a ball gown for the event's host. 

—The stage performance that night was a blast, and everyone started talking. Within a week, I already had dates lined up with shows. And I'm still working to this day. Next year, I'll have 30 years of uninterrupted work to my name. I've always been grateful to La Molina because in this life, an artist has to look for opportunities, but also earn them, and that comes from the person who opens the door for you to go out and play.

A long jacket made from a cream-colored bedspread, a black wig with yellow extensions sewn in, and yellow welding goggles. Antara runs out of Hangar 18's dressing room onto the sidewalk and around the block. It's October 1997, the opening show for the drag queen election in Córdoba, and it's two in the morning. A man who works at a company next to the club is waiting for her with a small yellow pack mule. Antara climbs in while RuPaul's "Supermodel of the World" plays inside. The emergency doors open, and she soars onto the stage while dancing.

— People died. There were a thousand people who opened up like Moses in the waters, and I walked through the middle of the track.

Consecration

It's one in the morning on Tuesday, July 9, 2024, a holiday in Tucumán. Tourists mingle with locals; Independence Day celebrations began days ago. In the city center, the traditional patriotic vigil is underway, this time bringing the nation's president, Javier Milei. Several miles away, in a nightclub, independence is being celebrated with the election of the Argentine National Drag Queen. The music stops, the lights bounce off the silver dress, a glittery headpiece holding up an almost white blonde wig, and large red lips. Under the stage, screams.    

—Tonight we are making history. My name is Antara Wells, I was the first chosen to represent this house—some shout "mother." Tonight the stars shine brightly for us. May it be an incredible night of excellence. We will be here to honor Argentine drag. Applause for all the dragon queens. More federal than ever, July 9th is celebrated here. 

—That's an asshole, Antara. She's already told me everything I had to say. Lie. Much respect to Antara. We met her back in 2000, says her stage partner. 

Antara was Argentina's first National Drag Queen, but tonight she's a judge, evaluating her peers twenty years younger. She doesn't skimp on the scores, which never go below seven. 

— I'm returning in 2017 as a judge after 13 years of not going. I thought people had forgotten about me, but when they introduced me and the crowd screamed, it was a shock. I didn't miss it anymore because it's a treat anyone would want. But well, today's girls, who are so technologically savvy, are more arrogant and don't know how to work cooperatively. They work as individuals and think they're superior. We Latinos are pure talent; we have to give it the importance and value it deserves. 

In 2000, Pablo had been in Miami and bought Whitney Houston's single " It's Not Right" . Wearing that song, a short wig, sky-blue latex tights with a python print, a black leather corset, and a coat, he entered the national elections. The jury twice declared a tie, and the winner went to the public.

— I won without having the impact of the other one. I made an impact in terms of physical size, I danced, I stretched my legs, which for me wasn't a common size. The other drag queen underestimated the audience and treated the Tucumán women like dirty girls. That stuck with the people. They voted for the friendly and loving one, not the transgressive and virtuous one. 

Antara 

Daniela Brollo comes down the stairs of her house with a brown cardboard bag. Inside, several treasures, a harvest. She joins two small tables in the living room and unfolds three small piles of different heights, held together by white papers with markers containing various references, codes she understands. She has a degree in Anthropology and is a CONICET fellow. For several years, she has studied drag queen in nighttime, festive, and commercial social spaces. The small piles contain photographs from Antara: a genealogy of wigs, makeup, sets, characters, latex, cancans, and Pablo's travels.

Hangar 18th Anniversary in 1999. All in black with colorful wigs: Jorge Molina with a blue wig. The teacher of all, a tango dancer, a folklore dancer, and a dancer from Moria Casan during his season. Jenny McKenna wore a green wig. María Laura García wore an orange wig. Tamara Show wore a purple wig. Ariadna Paredes, who was the coya, wore a red wig.  

But Antara wasn't Antara from birth. He roamed some venues nameless at night. Pablo roamed provincial government offices by day. Thirty years later, sitting on a stool with a cup of tea, sipping it when the magnetic words allow him to pause, he says without repeating himself and without stopping: 

— One night I was hired to do the red carpet for a nightclub I was opening, and they looked for me as a drag reporter. We were doing interviews, and a transvestite from Paraná came in. She was voluptuous, with a waist, hips, ass, big boobs, high cheekbones, enormous, a big mouth, and a lot of curly hair. She entered her world. We pounced on her, asked her where she came from, what her name was. She said my name was Antara, with a trucker's voice. She said I like names with personality and I come from an Arab family. Later, I had to define my name, and since I held a political position, my in-laws didn't want my name flying around because I had a public role. So I said Antara because I was stuck with this character, who was like a Coca Sarli inflatable doll that had let the air out; she was an imposing Coca Sarli. And there's an Australian series I watched several times in my teens called "Return to Eden." It was the story of a millionaire woman who loses everything and then returns under a false identity to recover her fortune, using the name Tara Welles. She aims to become a fashion icon; she was a star, and she becomes powerful. I liked combining this grotesque Antara with this Welles of power, luxury, and fame. She emerges victorious and moves forward.

By talent or by daring

Shoes, 280 wigs, helmets, hats, dresses, pants, T-shirts, shirts, enchanted forest wings, gothic wings, romantic wings, angel wings. A small apartment in the Marechal neighborhood serves as a warehouse, her office. 

Pablo walks in and turns on the lights; they're the kind that erase all the shadows on the face and neck that are hidden with makeup. The kitchen-diner has two chairs, a small table, an armchair protected with a cloth and filled with bags of clothing. There are three occupied pieces of furniture, and a shelf with hangers that holds clothes to be taken to a dressmaker. Open suitcases, half-disassembled, lie on the floor, and two large mirrors. In the bathroom, the shower is the large basin, because the show's clothes are washed by hand. There's a dryer and a fan because sometimes clothes have to be dried overnight. There's no echo in the room; three people enter, standing, dodging boxes, hanging dresses, colorful hats, and two large racks full of hangers filled with clothes. There are boxes of earrings, boxes of necklaces, jars of rings, jars of crowns, jars that have to be opened to discover what's inside. It's a wardrobe and a logistics house: for 22 years, Pablo has had an event production company and a dance company. 

She looks to one side and searches among the brushes, ribbons, glasses, and pencils. She finds a stack of old photos. She places them on the table. In one, she's wearing a corset that squeezes her body, creating curves at the top and waist. 

—That's in Hangar 18. I was a lot wearing a corset at the time; my body wasn't that of a model or that of my colleagues. Now I understand. I'm really daring to step on stage, but I understand why, because I have that confidence I've always had in my head. Put me next to Valeria Mazza, but she's not going to be better than me, no matter how pretty and blonde she is. Because I'm going to be prettier and blonder than her. I assure you, I'm going to stand out. Maybe I won't outshine her, but I'm going to stand out. Although it's something I had more offstage than onstage, and that's something you either have or you don't. An artist gets there through talent or through daring. 

Hangar, Bunker, Vitreaux, Beep, El Ojo Bizarro, Carreras, La Jungla, La Luna, Egos, Rapoza. In the 2000s, this was the circuit that took them to stages all over Córdoba. Drag artists and transformists began to attract a heterosexual audience, as well as businessmen and social and political figures from Córdoba's upper classes. 

During those years, the names of Antara, La Molina, and other artists reached the ears of Ramon Pico, who did the ambiance, cooking, and decorating for parties. He was a pioneer of multi-spaces, having his own restaurant, party house, and boutique on Cerro de las Rosas. "You are living works of art. Let people see you, do what you want," Ramon Pico told six drag queens standing on a scaffold painted silver with glitter. The pay was $200. 

—I'll never forget those words. They were the happiest four hours of my life, surrounded by the richest people in all of Córdoba. Years later, I went to work at the Paganis' house, the owners of Arcor. They hired me for their parties, doing Broadway and New York nights. Six months later, I returned to the same house for another party in the basement; eight cars could fit in there. It was in a gated community that had just opened.

After being crowned the first National Drag Queen, she entered another market, rose a step, she says, and began getting hired by other Córdoba clubs in the Chateau area. Brands—like Chandon and Quilmes—paid for her shows.  

—Since I won the national championship, my job also began to involve traveling all over Argentina. For two years, I traveled everywhere, to every club. It meant grabbing my bag and traveling a lot throughout my country, and it was the most rewarding thing I've ever experienced.

Since 2005, he began working more in event production and direction, and in the theater. 

— I didn't want to burn out on exhibitions or give away my work. The drag scene in clubs started to fade a bit, but I wanted to bring drag to the theater. I wanted the character to have a script, lyrics, and direction, and that led me, between 2008 and 2012, to go back to school, back to reading, back to writing, back to theater workshops. 

A life of shows

It's June 28, 2024, International LGBT Pride Day. It's cold in the courtyard of the Centro Cultural España Córdoba. There are no bare shoulders or legs, only petticoats, long dresses, coats, and jackets. On the way to the courtyard, a hallway has large photos glued to the wall: her face and a performance at the 1st Drag Queen Election at Hangar in 1997, a performance at a Fundación Huésped event at Palacio Alsina in 2001, an award-winning performance in Tucumán in the 2000s, alongside her fellow drag queens in 1999. The exhibition "A Wonderful Life of Shows" opens, part of the Escenas Transformistas research and archiving project, which covers five decades of this art form in clubs, stages, parties, and bars. 

On stage, Antara, next to the event's host, Bonita Stars: 

—How are you doing, lovely people? It's a pleasure to be here after 30 years of experience. When you leave this event, you can take a tour of the exhibition, a brief overview of drag in Córdoba. Visiting iconic locations. Córdoba is a cradle of talent. Let the love shine through on a night as incredible as this June 28th. 

—Did you say 30 years of career? I've had a life, says Bonita Stars. 

—When I was already making fun of you, you were just being born. You had just appeared in the world. 

Bonita strolls through the audience, waiting for the first show with questions and prizes. She stops in front of a girl, estimated to be in her 20s, gives her the microphone, and, in exchange for some candy, asks the name of the first National Drag Queen. The girl doesn't answer, she thinks. "Tell me who was the first one, she was there," the host insists. The girl doesn't answer, saying she doesn't know. 

Thirty years. Thirty years is the number Pablo repeats most.
—Next year I'm already planning on ending my drag career at the national level and I'm no longer going to compete with the 20-year-olds who are the ones who are performing now. I don't feel like wearing so much makeup or high heels because I don't have the physique or the time. Drag is a very solid discipline; it's political, it's pure expression, and it's part of a cultural movement that has no limits. Next year I'm going to retire because it's 30 years, but I'm not going to give up the artistic side because it's my life, it's my profession. As a drag queen, I'm already completing a cycle. I'm bothered by a lot of disrespect and the lack of commitment to drag. They show up thinking they're a unique character; the originality has been lost. I'm enjoying these moments of recognition to tell them, 'Girls, I hope you do very well and that you have a good path, that you have possibilities,' because so far there's no other drag queen who has been working for 30 years. When I return to this world it is to enjoy it, to reap the harvest.