Be Cool, Honeybunny: Our Irrational Love of Competition in Cosplay
After ten years in the cosplay scene, I have a lot of confessions to make.
These days, ten years of cosplay makes you old school. At my first Katsucon in 2003, I didn’t know what a Masquerade was in the convention context. The idea of cosplay as competition didn’t exist to me. Cosplay was when you picked out a favorite character whose outfit seemed like something you could replicate without owning a sewing machine. I felt clever hunting through thrift stores and Wal-Marts for shorts that were acceptably close for my Yuffie Kisaragi costume. I felt like a genius when I cut up an old space alien Halloween costume for silver fabric and repurposed a lip gloss tin for a large metal disc detail.
It was my first convention and I had big goals. I was going to get to the convention, meet other Final Fantasy fans in the flesh, and have enough money after dinner to buy a wall scroll. My seventeen year old self could hardly stand it. For me, cosplay was a way to let your freak flag fly, the ultimate t-shirt or banner on your Tripod page. Dressed as my favorite character from my favorite video game, I was a living beacon of fandom. In my mind, my outfit said to the gathered, nerdy masses, ‘I will talk to you about my fanfiction, and I want to hear about yours!’
Years later, when cosplay not only was clearly competitive in my mind, but in my execution, I was a different animal. Sitting on the floor in a chaotic, messy pile, frantically finishing my Lulu costume, it was so easy to justify the words coming out of my mouth.
“I hope there aren’t any other Lulus. I mean, mine will be the best.”
“I’m gluing this trim on because I’d have to hand sew it otherwise and I just don’t have time. Ugh. Do you think the judges will notice?”
“I think I might call out of work tomorrow so I can sleep. Otherwise it’s not going to happen.”
I’ve competed a handful of times. Done a few little dances on stage, won a Hall Cosplay award or two, and felt good about it. The judges didn’t seem to mind my glued-on Lulu trim, and I’ve still got the little carved plaque on my sewing table. I’ve won a few boxed set DVDs and received a few Judges Awards, things that put me over the moon when first I received one, but years later infuriated me. Early in my cosplay career, the recognition of someone so illustrious as a Cosplay Judge set me alight. In 2005, I clutched that little paper certificate and sent links of our dancing to the ‘Numa Numa song’ to everyone who would sit still to watch. In 2008, we graciously received a Judges’ Award and smiled brightly, but fussed quietly in our hotel room. It wasn’t enough! We deserved more! Did you see the girl who won?
I was far from the worst. I had the composure to always be grateful, to thank every judge, to compliment the other contestants and shrug modestly when friends asked why I didn’t win. I knew – and still know – people who don’t. I’ve heard all of the stories – she doesn’t know how to use a serger, he commissioned that armor, I secretly made her costume. That much, I was able to avoid. Even friends who don’t compete and who have never competed have the insecurities, the inner doubt. Why do we compare ourselves so harshly? Why do we fight over photographers, over characters, over materials and techniques?
Cosplay is, at its core, silly. When it comes down to it, even the most beautiful cosplayer in the most complicated costume with most epic photoshoot is a nerd in a costume. Or at least, is hopefully a nerd in a costume. It’s undoubtedly one of the unspoken facts that makes cosplay a magical fantasy: while models are typically beautiful people who will never talk to you, cosplayers are beautiful people who not only might talk to you, they’ll talk to you about Macross.
This was the attitude that brought me to cosplay, so what subsumed that mindset? Why did I recently find myself inside of a Facebook cosplay competition, sneering at a six year old in a suit for having more votes than me? Let me tell you, fellow nerds, that was the moment that made me write this article. That is my public flagellation.
It’s nice to get recognized for one’s work, that much is undoubted. The question is when does recognition become validation?
There was a time when I was over the moon that anyone even wanted a photo of me. A fellow con-goer putting down their bag to snap a disposable camera picture of me was the highlight of my weekend. Years later I found myself huffing and rolling my eyes when I had to set my drink down for a photographer with good equipment. What happened to me? I’ve seen friends lie to loved ones, telling them they were competing for cash and prizes when all they wanted was to attend the con. I’ve seen people pour their heart and soul into competition and disappear for weeks in mourning when they didn’t win. What photos are good enough photos, which ones get enough likes and reblogs to let us move on to another costume? What justifies that? What prize is enough? Prizes have moved on from anime DVDs and certificates to worldwide titles and trips overseas. A trip is a wonderful prize, I’d certainly take one if I won it, but it’s not about the money. Cosplayers aren’t putting $3000 of work into a chance to win a $1000 plane ticket.
As cosplayers grow up, we perhaps feel determined to justify our hobbies. As the scene itself moves out of basements and onto social media, we’re on display, on TV, on YouTube and iTunes. No one wants to look at the camera and smile, and say ‘I’m a consultant, actually, I just do this for a hobby.’ And why the hell not? Maybe that’s how we get to be the magical girls and superheroes we’ve always dreamed of.
This year I wore my Scarlet Witch costume to my tenth and most recent Katsucon. After a decade of Katsucons, I had a full schedule, including a Marvel photoshoot. I spent so much time playing around and talking comics with my old friends and new friends – folks dressed as Hawkeye, Daredevil, Black Widow and Mister T – that I forgot completely about the photoshoot. I walked away laughing so hard my face ached, with a phone full of absolutely awful photos, and feeling like I’d beaten a boss fight. From the jaws of bad attitude and validation, I’d snatched a gem missing for ten years – how to cosplay for fun alone.
And to think, I wasn’t even there for a prize.
