Antara Wells will be Marilyn Monroe tonight. But the one waiting now, behind the door, wearing large black sunglasses 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 Marilyn's classic white dress at the dry cleaners. He needs it for tonight because they're celebrating a friend's birthday, and he's scheduled to perform. He walks confidently down the building's hallway, like someone who always knows where he's going, making his way through without losing his charm, and the magic begins: reciting fragments of his own fame. 

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

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

Since I was a kid 

— Do you not have anything you don't need, Mrs. Maria? — a trans woman asks a lady who arrives hand in hand with her grandson at her house in Pasaje Revol, in the heart of Güemes, in the Argentine province of Córdoba. 

The boy watches her, his eyes fixed on her waist cinched by a belt, her bottom squeezed beneath the fabric, her long, shiny, and magnificent hair. His grandmother comes in to get clothes, food, or medicine—whatever she always keeps on hand for the girls who work on the corner of Cañada and Achával Rodríguez streets near her house. 

Doña María receives 14 grandchildren every day, who spread out among the rooms of the house. The sixth, Pablo Maldonado, was born on January 3, 1974. He comes from a traditional, radical Cordoban family. His mother, Ángela Domínguez, works at the Ministry of Public Works. His father, Aníbal Palacio, works at the Córdoba Pension Fund. Across the street, outside his grandmother's house, a recently inaugurated Arts Promenade filled his free time with painting, ceramics, and crafts workshops. Theater, circus, and musical performances were the family's weekend activity. 

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 for a walk. We ended up at New York City Mall—a famous shopping center with a children's play area right on the pedestrian street in the city center. In the basement, there was a space where they put on shows. My mom saw a sign that said "Diva Night." We left the play area, and the show was starting. It was the Strass Group, who were there to do a kind of hidden show. It was my first encounter with drag performers. I saw Marilyn Monroe, Josephine Baker, Marlene Dietrich, and Barbra Streisand. I was nine years old. 

In the early 1990s, the Dr. Agustín Garzón Agulla Higher Teacher Training School required its students to choose between vocational workshops to attend twice a week after school. Pablo wasn't good with a typewriter, so he ruled out typing; he wasn't good at dissecting insects, so he ruled out taxidermy; but he was good at other things, so he chose theater. The workshop could only be repeated for two years, but he did it from age 13 to 16, with the permission of his teacher, though behind the scenes: directing, assisting, and producing. At 18, he received a promotion, but Pablo didn't say goodbye to the school; they asked him to be an assistant in the theater workshop. He stayed for four more years, with a salary. 

The '90s

Pablo is always in the places where the intensity sets the pace, stepping in just before the climax. In the '90s, in Córdoba, those places were the nightclubs. Hangar 18 is one of them, operating between 1995 and 2005 in an industrial warehouse near the former wholesale market. Sundays were for electronic music, Saturdays for a gay crowd, and Fridays a mix of straight and gay people. He started from the bottom, producing.

A fat Marilyn Monroe, a singer dressed in military attire, and a presenter in formal attire are going to take to the stage at Piaf, a nightclub in the San Martin neighborhood, on a 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 is the protagonist, but there are supporting characters who taught him the discipline and conduct of the profession: Jorge Molina is one of them. 

— He had just come from spending five years at Mario House, a venue in Camboriú dedicated to drag as a form of entertainment. He arrived with an impressive background as a choreographer, dancer, and actor, all of which he poured into the world of drag. He was a ticking time bomb, a master of masters. He had previously worked with the first drag group formed in Argentina, Grupo Strass.

One Thursday night in 1995, Jorge—on stage—and Pablo—behind the scenes—were rehearsing with the cast for a gala benefit show for the Hospital Clínicas and Hospital Rawson, which treat people with HIV. A white brick, with an antenna, began to ring. Jorge answered his cell phone and was told that his mother was very ill. 

“I’m getting off the boat, but Pablo will be at the helm. He’s the only person who would take my place without hesitation, he knows everything that needs to be done, he can wear my clothes, and he has the stage presence to pull this off,” Pablo says Jorge told him. The show is the next day. 

That Friday, one friend did her eyebrows, another her lips, and yet another helped with her wig. Her brother-in-law, an Air Force pilot, brought her four military uniforms. In the white, stretchy dress, she channeled Marilyn Monroe. She dressed in military fatigues and became a Star Sister, one of the singers who traveled to the Vietnam War to perform for the soldiers. Fishnet stockings, black shoes, and a military jacket worn as a dress, complete with a military cap, but no wig. She also dressed as Dixie Leonard, the 1940s actress and singer who teamed up with Eddie Sparks, a famous entertainer, to entertain the American troops in the film *For the Boys*. And finally, she wore a ball gown to host the event. 

— The performance that night was a huge success, and everyone was talking about it. Within a week, I had shows booked. And I'm still working to this day. Next year will mark 30 years of uninterrupted work. I've always been grateful to La Molina because in this life, an artist has to seek opportunities, but also earn them, and that comes from those who open doors for you to go out and perform.

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

— People died. There were a thousand people who parted like Moses in the waters, and I walked right through the middle of the runway.

Consecration

It's 1:00 AM on Tuesday, July 9, 2024, a holiday in Tucumán. Tourists mingle with locals; the Independence Day celebrations began days ago. In the city center, the traditional patriotic vigil is underway, this year attended by the nation's president, Javier Milei. Several kilometers away, at a nightclub, Independence Day is being celebrated with the crowning of Argentina's National Drag Queen. The music stops, lights reflect off the silver dress, a glittering headdress holding up an almost white blonde wig, and large, red lips. Below the stage, shouts erupt.    

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

— That Antara is such a bitch, she's already said everything I had to say. Just kidding. 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 colleagues who are twenty years younger. She doesn't hold back on the scores, which never go below seven. 

— I'm returning in 2017 as a judge after a 13-year absence. I thought people had forgotten about me, but when they introduced me and the crowd cheered, it was a shock. I never miss it again because it's an honor anyone would want. But, well, today's girls, who are so tech-savvy, are more arrogant and don't know how to work collaboratively; they work in isolation and think they're superior. We Latinos have pure talent; we need 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" . With that song, a short wig, light blue latex leggings with a python print, a black leather corset, and a coat, he entered the national elections. The jury tied twice, and the winner was ultimately chosen by the public vote.

— I won without having the same impact as the other one. I made an impact with my physical size; I danced, I spread my legs, which for me wasn't so common. The other drag queen underestimated the audience and called the women from Tucumán "black." That stuck with people. They voted for the charming and loving one, not the transgressive and virtuous one. 

Antara 

Daniela Brollo comes downstairs in her house carrying a brown cardboard bag. Inside, several treasures, a harvest. She pushes two small living room tables together and unfolds three piles of varying heights, wrapped in white papers with references written in marker—codes she understands. She has a degree in Anthropology and is a CONICET fellow. For several years, she has studied drag queen in nocturnal, festive, and commercial social spaces. The piles contain photographs of Antara: a genealogy of wigs, makeup, stages, characters, latex, cancans, and Pablo's travels.

Hangar 18 Anniversary in 1999. All in black with colorful wigs: Jorge Molina with a blue wig. The teacher of them all, a tango and folk dancer, and Moria Casan's dancer when she was performing. Jenny McKenna with a green wig. María Laura García in orange. Tamara Show in purple. Ariadna Paredes, who was the indigenous woman, in red.  

But Antara wasn't Antara from its inception; it wandered namelessly through various nighttime settings. Pablo frequented provincial government offices by day. Thirty years later, seated on a stool with a cup of tea, taking small sips whenever the magnetic words allow him a pause, he says without repeating himself or stopping: 

— One night I was hired to do the red carpet for a nightclub that was opening, and they approached me as a drag reporter. We were doing interviews when a voluptuous trans woman from Paraná arrived, with a waist, hips, ass, big breasts, high cheekbones, a huge face, a big mouth, and lots of perfectly styled curls. She was completely in her own world. We pounced on her, asked her where she was from, what her name was. She said, "My name is Antara," in a deep, resonant voice, adding, "I like names with personality, and I come from an Arab family." Later, I had to decide on my stage name, and since I held a political position and my in-laws were involved, I didn't want my name being thrown around, because I had a public role. So I said Antara because that character stuck with me; she was like an inflatable Coca Sarli doll that had been deflated—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 with a false identity to reclaim her fortune as Tara Welles. She sets out to be a fashion icon, a star, and becomes powerful. I liked the combination of this grotesque Antara with this Wells of power, luxury, and fame. She emerges unscathed and triumphs.

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 both a warehouse and his 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 usually covered with makeup. The kitchen-dining room has two chairs, a small table, an armchair covered with a cloth and piled high with bags of clothes, three occupied cabinets, and a shelf with hangers holding clothes to be taken to a tailor. Suitcases lie open and half-unpacked on the floor, along with two large mirrors. In the bathroom, the shower serves as a large basin because the show's costumes are hand-washed. There's a dryer and a fan because sometimes clothes need to dry overnight. The room is echo-free. Three people enter standing up, dodging boxes, hanging dresses, colorful hats, and two large clothing racks overflowing with hangers. There are boxes of earrings, boxes of necklaces, jars of rings, jars of crowns, jars that need to be opened to discover their contents. It's a wardrobe house and a logistics hub: for 22 years, Pablo has run an event production company and a dance troupe. 

She glances to the side and searches among 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 hugs her body, creating curves at the top and bottom. 

— That was at Hangar 18. Wearing a corset back then was quite something; my body wasn't that of a model or any of my colleagues. Now I understand. I'm really daring to step onto a 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 that's something I had more of offstage than onstage, and that's something you either have or you don't. An artist succeeds 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 queens and transvestites began to attract a primarily heterosexual audience. They also drew in businesspeople 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 event design, catering, and decoration for parties. He was a pioneer of multi-purpose venues, owning a restaurant, party hall, and boutique in Cerro de las Rosas. "You are living works of art, let people see you, do whatever 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 four happiest hours of my life, surrounded by the richest people in all of Córdoba. Years later, I went to work at the Pagani house, the owners of Arcor. They hired me for their parties, doing Broadway-themed nights, New York-style. 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 newly opened gated community.

After being crowned the first National Drag Queen, she entered another market, climbed a rung, she says, and began to be hired by other nightclubs in Córdoba, in the Chateau area. Brands—like Chandon or Quilmes—paid for the shows.  

— Since winning the national competition, my work has also involved traveling all over Argentina. For two years I traveled everywhere, to every club. It was just a matter of grabbing my bag and traveling extensively throughout my country, and it was the most rewarding experience I've ever had.

Since 2005, he began to work more in event production and management, and in theater. 

— I didn't want to burn myself out with exhibitions or give away my work. Drag 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 university, back to reading, back to writing, and 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 plastered on the wall: her face and a performance at the 1st Drag Queen Election at Hangar in 1997, a show at a Fundación Huésped event at Palacio Alsina in 2001, an award she received in Tucumán in the 2000s, and photos with her fellow drag queens in 1999. The exhibition "A Life of Wonderful Shows" is opening, part of the research and archive project Escenas Transformistas, which covers five decades of this art form in nightclubs, stages, parties, and bars. 

On stage, Antara, next to her, the host of the event, Bonita Stars: 

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

—Did you say 30 years of career? I said 30 years of life—says Bonita Stars. 

—When I was already out there acting like a whore, you were just being born. You had just appeared in the world. 

Bonita strolls through the audience, killing time until the first show with questions and prizes. She stops in front of a girl, about 20 years old, puts the microphone in her hand, and, in exchange for some candy, asks her the name of the first National Drag Queen. The girl doesn't answer; she's thinking. "Tell us who the first one was; she was right there," the host insists. The girl doesn't answer; she says she doesn't know. 

Thirty years. Thirty years is the number Pablo repeats most often.
—Next year I plan to end my drag career at the national level, and I won't be competing with the 20-year-olds who are performing now. I don't want so much makeup or such 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 been 30 years, but I'm not going to abandon the artistic side because it's my life, it's my profession. As a drag queen, I'm completing a cycle. I'm frustrated by the lack of respect and commitment to drag art. 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 have a good path, that you have opportunities,' because so far there isn't another drag queen who has 30 years of experience. When I return to this world it's to enjoy it, to reap the rewards.