wow café: the original fun home

thoughts on women's theater, queer spaces, downtown work, and dating dramaturgs in 2024 <3

May 14, 2024

“Before The L Word, Ellen, Will and Grace, the Logo Channel, and Glee, there was WOW, making queer art, putting lesbians on the map, creating a culture that would one day seep into the mainstream.” — Carmelita Tropicana

The other night, I found myself in the East Village, between closed coffee shops, family owned bakeries, and vintage clothing stores. I had just left a devised piece downtown, after my friend shared a comp link online. The show was fine (they’re always fine) so I sent her a thank you note as I shuffled down the staircase and headed towards the F. The subway line was running late again, so I continued heading east, all the while thinking I was going west, and somehow ended up on East 11th Street.

They say there’s history on every street here. Salons where there used to be studios and coffee shops where there used to be concert venues. 330 East 11th Street is no exception. Normally, I would never remember a street address unless it was my own, but this was the location of the legendary WOW Café Theatre. It was a landmark for the experimental theatre scene. It was where you went when you were “seeking a secret New York.”

WOW was a social club for lesbian and trans artists, where everybody dated each other and somehow they still made a show. Feminist performance spaces were resistant to welcoming these artists, so they developed another space of their own. Straight women were also invited, although some of them didn’t stay straight for long, and the company became a home for wayward girls. Lisa Kron, Holly Hughes, Split Britches, Carmelita Tropicana, and so many more I could name would often perform here. Because according to them, where else would they go?

*Upwardly Mobile Home* with Lois Weaver, Peggy Shaw, and Deb Margolin, 1984. Photography by Eva Weiss.

Performers would produce, designers would direct, and so on. Nobody paid membership fees because the only acceptable form of currency was sweat equity. By distributing tickets at the box office or painting sets for another performance, you could stage your own show. In other words, sweat for another play and someone will sweat for yours. That was WOW’s guiding principle back then and still is today.

They ran on anti-authoritarian principles. Official leadership was never appointed, and every rule was strictly operational. Decisions were made on Tuesday nights, when the group met every week to discuss WOW’s configurations. And if you missed the meeting, then someone else had to recap last week’s resolutions. WOW’s organizational structure was confusing for many of its members, but the women were committed to its anarchic approach. They fought over pool tables, photo galleries, and seating arrangements, except that was the norm at WOW. They refused to align themselves with rigid structural powers. Why would they ever attempt to restrict leadership, when every woman should feel empowered enough to act on her own desire? To them, WOW was rooted in anarchy and fights like these were necessary for its continuation.

festival szn (1981-82)

The company was conceived in the early eighties, when Peggy Shaw and Lois Weaver hosted the Women’s One World (WOW) International Theatre Festivals. They were inspired to create a feminist theatre festival, after returning from their European tour, where they performed alongside other avant-garde artists. Once they were back in the States, Peggy and Lois consulted with their friends, Pamela Camhe and Jordy Mark, about programming their own festival in New York, designed to highlight national and New York-based performers. They would also invite international groups to participate, in spite of the festival’s lack of funding.

“We didn’t apply for any funding because we decided in May to do it and we did it in October,” said Lois in a 1984 interview. “We decided that the time could be spent trying to organize grants and probably not get them or we could just go to work and contribute our full-time salary. That was one of our philosophies.”

“That’s still our philosophy,” Peggy responded. “It’s easier to get a job than a grant.”1

Throughout the summer of 1980, the women behind WOW hosted benefits to collect money for the festival. They didn’t make much, but they learned how to lead a serious fundraising campaign and their efforts increased awareness around the festival. Many of the European groups paid their way to New York and slept on other women’s couches or floors. They accepted whatever was available to them because performing in New York meant access to major press and contacts. That exposure was invaluable to them and reviews by local outlets helped them garner support back home.

There was also the pending matter of location. Where was the festival going to be and how were they going to pay for it? The four producers gathered together at Dojo on St. Mark’s Place in the spring of 1980. They realized there was no affordable performance venue in the city. Reagan’s economic policies were pushing performers out of theaters and into unconventional spaces. Peggy looked across the street and pointed to a possible alternative — the All Craft Center.

“We could do it there,” she said.2

The All Craft Center was an addiction treatment and housing facility run by a local interfaith minister. The Center also served as a women’s training hub for anyone interested in plumbing, carpentry, and electrical work. Lois, Pamela, Jordy, and Peggy agreed that if the space was available, they would program the festival in the fall. Something must have shifted that day because three rainbows reflected over the building and the All Craft Center said yes. They donated the venue and provided space for fundraising events over the summer.

Running for two weeks, the WOW International Theatre Festivals presented daytime and evening performances. They aspired to create a European-style festival environment, where performances, film screenings, dancing, and other forms of socialization could be combined into one experience. But the festival’s programming also ushered in a variety of performance styles, thanks to the artists involved.

Pamela and Jordy first met in 1974, after attending a clown workshop together. Shortly after, they became a couple because what could be sexier than the smallest mask in the world? Pamela was interested in photography, while Jordy was a multi-hyphenate producing visual art, singing in bars, and acting in plays at the time. Lois was an actor and a director, working on experimental projects across the city. She was also a co-founder of Spiderwoman Theater, an Indigenous feminist collective that became active in 1976. That’s how she was introduced to Peggy, who became involved in Spiderwoman after training with the drag performance troupe, Hot Peaches. The two artists forged a relationship in the late 1970s and have been together ever since.

I’m providing this context because you will never understand WOW without fully understanding their formative influences. They worked with women of color, feminists, and drag artists when they were still emerging in the New York theatre scene. The group was guided by a variety of aesthetic instincts, as contemporary feminist thought was in flux. This became a defining characteristic for WOW, as the group continued to collaborate past festival season, eventually culminating into the collectively run company, WOW Café.

wow at 330 (1982-85)

After the festival wrapped, the woman who ran the performance space asked if they would like to continue and so they did. The four women kept producing other people’s work at the All Craft Center, sharing a portion of their earnings with the performer, since they didn’t have any working capital at the time. They subsequently moved to the Ukrainian Home, after they were locked out of the Center. Apparently, The Flamboyant Ladies, a Black lesbian theatre company, presented a really provocative piece that led to WOW’s banishment.

It was “beautiful, but a little too sexy for the center,” Peggy remembered. “And it just so happened that near the end of the show, there was a fire next door that had nothing to do with us, but she said there was fire damage. The next time we came, there were padlocks on the door and we were out.”

Every Wednesday, they would present a series of performances at the Ukrainian Home, until they found another home at University of the Streets a month later. The space was really affordable and proved to be the perfect venue for WOW’s second festival. They also utilized other performance spaces across the city, including the Ukrainian Home and Theatre for the New City. While finding the necessary funds for this festival was certainly easier this time around, they still refused to apply for any grants so they continued to rely on donations. But when the festival was over and there was no place to perform anymore, they looked elsewhere.

“There was just this energy left over,” said Lois. “We had this place where you knew if you just dropped by, someone you know would be there. So this arbitrary group of people came together and had brunches every Sunday, and some people organized some benefits at Club 57 and said let’s put this to work on at a café space.”

The WOW company threw fundraising parties with outrageous themes to secure the new space. Some of these events included the Medical Drag Ball, the Freudian Slip/Psychotic Underwear Bash, and my personal favorite — the “I Dreamed I Paid the Rent in My Maidenform Bra” party. Their fundraising events, as highly specific as they were, coordinated with the WOW aesthetic. They billed themselves like a social club, as they populated these parties with kissing booths, thrift store finds, and impromptu performances. The company broke down the barriers between spectator and performer, creating a participatory experience that everybody could enjoy.

So many people became personally invested in WOW’s success, following the festivals and fundraising events. They knew how to have fun and inspired everyone around them to participate, whether they were the next Lisa Kron or not. At WOW, the process would always precede the product. Stories would be told with a sense of humor because they believed theatre was a utopian gesture. Nobody would ask for a coming out play because being a lesbian or anything adjacent to that was already a given. Any artist would transform themself into a ticket-taker, lighting designer, or cabaret singer for the night because somebody else would do the same for you. It’s just what you did at WOW, and that’s why people kept coming back for more.

The Café was more than a theatre company; it was a community that cared deeply for the collective. Some even went so far in describing WOW as a resource center, with offerings like acting classes, butch workshops, and opportunities to devise new work. They wanted to enhance the communitarian characteristics of WOW and sought out to secure their own space. Dismantling sets and procuring spots to perform every week left them feeling exhausted so they kept throwing donation parties, hoping that a “prime” piece of real estate would alleviate some of their work. Despite growing concerns that an acquisition would domesticate WOW, people were largely on board with the campaign and continued to pitch in as their efforts increased. They became baristas overnight and sold sandwiches over the counter to cover the cost of rent. They launched a yearly membership program, where audiences would pay $60 for 50 percent off all tickets. That’s why, within four months after the festival, WOW found its first permanent space at 330 East 11th Street, where the company resided until 1985.

It was clear this venue was never supposed to be a performing arts house. The storefront theater was clumsily constructed and inaccessible to many. Audiences were forced to climb three flights of stairs before entering the narrow space. Folded chairs were clustered together in a contained area because the venue provided little accommodation. The ceiling was painted differently every time a new member walked in, and the floor gave the impression that another layer of paint was necessary. Eventually, the company realized that a fresh coat would never expand the space and the floor was terminally marked by its own making. The artists learned to love the venue and would later celebrate what it gave them, despite its many flaws (and there were many).

Audiences also grew to love the unconventional space between Second and First Avenues. According to an early account of its programming, the audience’s excitement sometimes outshined the performance. Many of WOW’s attendees lived in the East Village, so they would stop by and see whatever show was running at the time. And as the years went by, the lines between spectator and performer continued to soften. People became engrossed in the company, and new artistic forms would be folded into the space. The Village Voice described the company as a city onto itself, where women would gather at 3:30pm through closing because everyone had a key.

“We called it ‘WOW at 330’ because that was the address, but also because we have this sense of what happens to girls when they get out of school,” Lois recalled. “3:30 is the time you get out of school and girls go out on the prowl looking for fun.”

By engaging in nonhierarchical practices, WOW at 330 was able to access a diverse company of artists. Women of color were foundational to WOW’s festival programming and they continued to present new work at their 11th Street location. Alina Troyano, for instance, became an inextricable force at WOW. It was actually where she invented her onstage persona, “Carmelita Tropicana.” Alina emceed a Variety Night with a scant lineup, and Peggy encouraged her to “go out there and do something.” Combining a composite of her family, Alina presented what she knew and the audience loved it. She’s gone by Carmelita ever since.

“Everyone was there,” festival participant C. Carr, reminisced, “middle-class women from the Midwest, working-class New Yorkers, women of color, bar dykes, straight women, butches, femmes, leather dykes…and nobody cared who anybody was or was not.”

Of course, that isn’t to say the group has always been inclusive. Following a recent visit to WOW’s headquarters, Holly Hughes, who became a presiding figure after the others went on tour, reflected on how the company has changed:

“After years of worrying about our mostly whiteness, WOW has evolved into a more diverse organization…Feel free to insert another word to describe the change from a mostly but not entirely, white group, to the group I see in the room this night. Several women of color move with the confidence that this is their place. In the past, we invited women of color to do festivals, to use the space on specific nights…we’d call on Alina Troyano and her sister Ela and designer Joni Wong to prove we were multicultural. We did so, I remember, with a sense of failure and shame. We didn’t care if people came to WOW and couldn’t deal with the campiness and sexiness; we didn’t care if they left because they weren’t willing to take out the trash…But we did mind the barrier of our whiteness. I’m happy to see the change, but I wonder what brought it about.”

I like to believe that WOW is more inclusive today because they never waited for a movement to galvanize them into action. From the beginning, they reached out to other communities and collectives, offering ongoing support and a spot to perform. I think history says a lot about you, even when the foundational fabric might pucker or the seams that you so carefully stitched together start to unravel.

The artists at WOW noticed how the company became a theatrical playground for white women to share their experiences, but women of color were often left behind. By inviting these artists into their space, they worked to expand the company’s demographic. Of course, everyone wanted WOW to be inclusive, but the company was founded by white women. We have this tendency where we desperately want to be liked. And at the same time, I want to make stuff with my friends. I can’t imagine opening a space without their work in mind. How insufferable would that be?

The company continually fought for inclusion, but they were also founded upon separatist values. It was a precarious thing to navigate back then, and they’re still navigating this now. How do you develop a women’s theatre, when the spectrum of gender identity is vast and evolving? Trans artists have worked pretty consistently with WOW. Whether they were staging new work or attending charity events, they have always been an integral part of its framework. Men were invited to perform when Holly programmed Cabaret BOW WOW (Boys at WOW/Women at WOW), in collaboration with the Limbo Lounge. Fights would occasionally erupt when male artists were asked to participate in WOW’s programming. Some of the women had even refused to work on these shows on principle. The conversations were contentious, even when second-wave feminism was deeply embedded in mainstream consciousness. What does women’s theater look like? What does it actually mean to create theatre designed for and conceived by women? And how are we going to reinvent the wheel, so we’re not merely a rotation of previously-held ideas?

It seems like we’re still exploring these questions today. Things have changed and also they haven’t really. Being a woman is more than makeup tutorials, girl dinners, and bad breakup songs, but what is it really defined by? Silly internet trends derived from deflection, or familiar experiences provoked by oppressive forces? In other words, can we find commonality without suffering? Is that even possible?

I’ve been interested in WOW’s history for awhile now. We never learned about the company in school and honestly, I’m grateful we never did. Cool theatre collectives are not course requirement material, nor should they ever be. I came across WOW’s work when I read Jill Dolan’s Utopia in Performance over the pandemic. Since then, WOW seems like they’re everywhere, even when you’re walking away from a poorly devised show.

I’m fascinated by the way they came together, and I’m also partly jealous. I’ve lived in New York for two and a half years, and finding any semblance of an artistic home feels nearly impossible. I know that two and a half years is basically a blip here, that you don’t really feel like a New Yorker until you’ve signed onto your third lease, but where can we experiment now? Visual artists never workshop material at local performance spaces anymore. Former students at ivy league institutions are now finishing artistic residencies at Off-Off-Off Broadway spaces. People don’t even paint the floors like they used to; they’ll call someone else to install the carpet now.

Clearly, things have changed and we’re all missing what we never got to experience. These days, everyone is writing nostalgically about the past, but saying you miss something doesn’t really replace what comes after. It feels counterintuitive, yet we still find comfort in the process of knowing. WOW continues to be in operation today, with weekly meetings scheduled every Tuesday. They’re now held over Zoom, so anyone can join and participate.

We go on missing the memory of a company currently in effect today, so I have to wonder what’s changed between now and then? I realize that laptops are likely being shut right now because it’s a relatively stupid question to ask. Everything has changed. Spaces like WOW at 330 no longer exist and even if they did, everyone is either living Uptown or in Brooklyn. There’s no place to go when you’re an artist in progress anymore, and it’s feeling less like utopia this time.

But there’s still WOW. Realistically, the group is more accessible and according to its previous members, more diverse than ever before. These places exist, except most of them are virtual now and I’m grateful they are. I’ve connected with so many disabled artists through online forums in the past few years and my work would be nothing without them. But I also miss those third places, where people would congregate for hours and stage the impossible. It just seems like companies are being built, but collectives aren’t being made. Whenever we’re invited to participate, there’s an application process.

And yet, in spite of everything I just said, I still wonder if my generation would actually join WOW at 330, if the circumstances were similar today. We are so terminally online that a minor interaction with the outside world feels like we’re traveling to Moscow. Maybe I’m the only one who feels this way, but whenever I visit a venue downtown, even when I know the history, I stare at my phone and wait for the show to begin. I could say hi, but the person next to me is sitting next to somebody else. I could introduce myself to the director sitting in the front row, but why would they want to talk to me? What could they possibly gain from this conversation?

It’s pathetic. Our generation is pathetic! We signed up for acting class because we clearly needed to form some type of connection, but we don’t know how to socialize anymore. It’s beyond frustrating, especially when you study social clubs like WOW, where community was central to their work.

Looking ahead, I want to see emerging artists sitting together at Signature’s lobby, with their laptops open and hands closed beside them. I want to see random strangers gathering at the Drama Book Shop, so they can read a really old play that everyone will hate by the end of Act 2. I want to see fundraising events facilitated by artists, with special themes that will drive away any corporation with cryptic values. I want to see writers falling in love with dramaturgs, even if they’re expected to launch a new theatre company in the next few months. (Seriously! Can someone just fall in love with us!)

WOW at 330 will never be the same. The company eventually moved into another space between Bowery and Second Avenue. 330 East 11th Street is actually a dog grooming center now, and the store front signage is already beginning to fade. On the left, there’s a Buffalo Exchange, with a call to action written in window paint: “SHOP UR <3 OUT!” in big bubbly blue letters. Down the block, there’s another consignment store, with antique necklaces on display. Every chain is tangled together, and flowers are pressed into circular pendants. On the corner, there’s a colorful collage of Ruth Bader Ginsburg peering over pedestrians as they pass by.

But up the street, two girls holding hands walk out of an old stamp store, which is still holding strong 45 years later. They’re laughing about something, but their lips close into a shy smile before I can ask them why. And by the time I pull my phone out, hoping to capture their silhouette, they’re already gone.