Section:GDN 12 PaGe:10 Edition Date:190821 Edition:01 Zone: Sent at 20/8/2019 15:27 cYanmaGentaYellowbl

• The Guardian
  10 Wednesday 21 August 2019
  Arts

understanding the bloodied past of

the Caribbean.

“One of the earliest forms of mas

in Trinidad was the burning of the

canes,” explains University of Oregon

professor Philip W Scher. “Whites

would dress as slaves and parade

through the streets doing a mock

version of something that happened

with regularity during slavery – when

the sugar cane caught on fi re, and

they’d have to march the slaves out

to the fi elds in the night to put it out .”

After slavery ended, the practice was

reinterpreted by the freed African

people, and incorporated into their

carnival tradition.

Mas is a form of street theatre,

replete with distinct characters, all

with their own energetic traditions.

There are Moko Jumbies, who walk

down Port of Spain’s Frederick Street

on stilts, collecting money from the

people watching on balconies. There

are Blue Devils, hailing from the

village of Paramin , who paint their

skin blue and extort money from the

crowd. (Woe betide anyone who is

short of change – they are famously

terrifying.) The Midnight Robbers

hold passersby up at fake gunpoint

and deliver long, improvised

speeches. And the rambunctious

Pissenlit – wet the bed – run

around in rags soaked in urine or

menstrual blood.

All this revelry has a purpose.

“Mas is a mentality, a way of

understanding who we are and where

we stand,” says Trinidadian scholar

Kevin Adonis Browne, author of

High Mas: Carnival and the Poetics

of Caribbean Culture. Because mas

came out of slavery, a transgressive

critique of white imperialism is

inherent in the performance. “During

the 19th century, the planter class

had their balls,” Browne explains.

“They’d exclude slaves or, later on,

free blacks or indentured servants.

Mas was a mirror image of the

masquerades these people had seen

the bourgeois performing, but also a

critical refl ection. It’s a paradoxical

engagement with race, class, and

politics, and a push-pull embrace and

rejection of offi cial culture, western

sensibilities, or whiteness.”

Carnival doesn’t start when the

fi rst fl oats line the road. Preparations

begin months earlier, at mas camps.

“It’s a social space,” says Browne. “It’s

where you reinforce the ideologies

of mas and carnival , where history is

shared and ideas are passed down.”

Mas camps were imported to

the UK in the 1960s. Before her fi rst

carnival , Allyson spent weeks making

papier -mache hats. “It was like that

traditional mas camp requirement,”

she says with a chuckle. “If you

went to a mas camp, you ended

up working! Someone always put

something in your hand that you had

to do.”

For Melissa Simon-Hartman,

being part of a mas camp changed her

life. A ssisting Meilin Sancho of the

Elimu Carnival Band led to a career

as a costume designer. “I used to

follow Sancho around everywhere,”

Simon-Hartman says in her kitchen

in Bedford. “I wanted to glitter and

decorate things for her. I was totally

enamoured with her.”

At her fi rst Notting Hill, Simon-

Hartman – then seven – played a Jab

Molassie, one of the oldest carnival

character s. Usually smeared with

tar, mud, grease, or coloured paint

(the Blue Devils are a variant), the

Jab Molassies are devils that will

drag you to hell. “It was heavenly,”

she says. “I was depressed when it

was over. I cried for a very long time

after carnival.” ( I n Trinidad, “carnival

tabanca” refers to the heartache

revellers feel when carnival is over.)

She leads me past a Sea Flower

costume that takes up most of the

hallway. “The actual fabric is belly-

dancing material,” Simon-Hartman

says, fi ngering the pink and purple

skirt. It is gossamer-thin and wired

out from a waistband to resemble the

petals of a tropical fl ower.

In her studio, assistants Raveena

Flora and Rosemary Barrett are busy

at work. Sewing machines rattle

and mannequins weighted in beads

and pearls stare back at me. This

year, Simon-Hartman is producing

28  costumes for four bands, including

I n a workroom in

the Yaa Centre in west London,

surrounded by bolts of fabric and

sewing machines, Allyson Williams

is reminiscing about her fi rst mas

camp. For the uninitiated, mas

camps are where carnival bands

gather to make their costumes by

hand. Now 72, the former midwife

• she was awarded an MBE in 2002


• smiles broadly at the memory.
  “It was wonderful. I thought,
  oh my God! This is like home.”
  For the Williams es, mas is a family
  business. It started with Allyson’s
  husband, Vernon , who came to
  London in 1956. As a Trinidadian,
  like Allyson, carnival was in his
  blood. After meeting his wife-to-be
  in 1975, Vernon wasted no time
  in introducing her to Notting Hill
  Carnival , which he had co-founded
  in 1966.
  While the average reveller might
  not be familiar with mas , it is integral
  to the carnival’s history. Short for
  masquerade, the idea of playing mas
  as part of a carnival band originated
  in Trinidad, which provided the
  general model for Notting Hill. ( These
  days it has also been infl uenced
  by Brazilian traditions ). A historic
  practice that traces its roots back to
  slavery, you can’t play mas without

With its dancers,

devils and hand-

made elaborate

costumes, mas is

the Notting Hill

carnival’s oldest

tradition.

Sirin Kale meets

the women

keeping it alive

I’d reach for

my father’s

costumes and

think, if I touch

this, will it

shine more?

‘I’m all

feathered

out’

Connecting with

the past ...

Allyson Williams

in her studio

Taking fl ight ...

Melissa Simon-

Hartman with

one of her

costumes

Elimu – and she’s doing things

diff erently. “Look,” she says. “I have

no issues with feathers – I don’t want

anyone coming after me – but I like

to experiment with texture. So if

someone wants feathers, I look for

something I can replicate a feather

with .” She laser-cut packaging

material to resemble feathers, so

another band won’t turn up wearing

the same plumage.

One of Allyson Williams’s earliest

memories is of watching her father

shake out an Elizabethan-themed

costume. “He was a courtier, or

something like that,” she says, her

eyes brightening. “He had this

elaborate costume with huge sle eves

and puff y pants in all these beautiful

colours. I’d reach out to touch them,

and think, if I touch this, will it rub

off , or will it shine more?”

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