SARAH BRENNAN

Radical Participation: An Introvert Goes to Burning Man

It is dark as I cross Esplanade and make my way out onto Playa. Techno music filters through the air and voices, indistinct, fade in and out. The barest hint of light appears above the mountains to the east. I continue. It is a sin to cross the Playa unlit, invisible in the night. My bike is lit up on all sides, the fairy lights I have interlaced onto my backpack glow, while my headlamp lets others know I am approaching. I am not a dark wad. I travel against the flow of Burners heading home after a night out.

My pace is unhurried but purposeful. I know where I want to be to capture the pre-dawn light. Today it is a giant chalice resting on its side in the sand. More than a dozen people could fill the cup, but it is quiet when I get there. I am alone.

The rim is inscribed. I do not understand the words I read there, but they circle in my mind.

“If you die before you die then you won’t die when you die.”

I take out my camera, check my settings, and prepare to photograph.

***

Photography is my cover story. Don’t get me wrong, I relish capturing images of the artwork at Burning Man. I am awed by the creativity and inventiveness of the artists who choose to share their creations in Black Rock City (BRC). No one questions me when I say I need to head back to camp early because I’m photographing the sunrise the next morning.

The first time I used this reason, it wasn’t an excuse. I really was getting up early to photograph the sunrise. The statement was met with respect from the group at the bar, I was an artist and willing to sacrifice a night out for my craft. It didn’t take long before I realized that I could use photography to seek solitude and hide from the constant barrage of people, sounds, and social interactions that make up the heart of Burning Man.

Deep Playa, the outer reaches of the city, is bounded by an orange plastic trash fence and separates Black Rock City from the rest of the federal land. Here it is possible to find complete solitude and even silence. And art. It is two miles from the center of the city out to the trash fence at its furthest point, and the time it takes to ride your bike there depends on the wind, the heat, and the condition of the ground. It will never be a straight line as you swerve to avoid sand traps, get distracted by a shiny piece of art, or come across something that wasn’t there the last time you were in the area. One year someone created a resting spot in the middle of nowhere. There was a large, white-leafed tree with oversized, squishy, pillows on the ground under them. No one was within shouting distance; I was alone with shade and a comfortable place to lie back, rest, and allow my mind to wander.

Burning Man is not easy. The physical environment will actively try to kill you. The alkali dust from a prehistoric lake dries out the skin leaving it susceptible to cracking and bleeding. The heat of the day and wind saps your body of moisture and leaves you dehydrated and confused even without alcohol. Dust clogs your nasal passages and stings your eyes as white-out conditions prevent you from seeing but a few feet ahead of you and erases all ability to determine direction. The physical hardships, however, pale against my inner voice. The one that makes dozens of decisions about who I am going to be at any given moment. It is in the quiet moments when I am alone in Deep Playa that the full weight of my self-imposed limitations and unspoken desires take hold. Where I wrestle with the person I was, I am, and who I want to be.

I am not beautiful, or even pretty. I am short and fat, more interested in being comfortable and safe in the desert than being noticed. I don’t wear make-up, my freckles pop out, my naturally curly hair retains dust and sweat, and I constantly have hat hair. My Playa clothes are sourced from thrift stores, and in my backpack, I always carry extra water, snacks, my camera, and a knife. Years ago, my father bought me a safari-style hat, the kind made of heavy khaki canvas that snaps up on one side and has a rawhide string to tighten under your chin. I never leave camp without it, and after 5 years in the desert, it is finally starting to soften and have a lived-in look. It matches the one my father wears even when he isn’t at Burning Man.

Envy is not a feeling I like to admit to, but it seeps into my brain more at Burning Man than any place else. I don’t envy the superficially beautiful posing for their Instagram reels, or the fancy costumes. Surely if I really wanted them, I would buy them. Instead, it is the woman I met while she was tending a bar one afternoon. She’s a bit older and gets my joke about being a bicentennial baby when checking my ID, and at least twenty pounds heavier. She is wearing a black leather corset and a short leather skirt that barely covers her ass. She revels in her body and flaunts it at will to Burners she deems worthy. I sat further down at the bar, watching her laugh, wondering. Is she that confident in the default world, or is it a persona that she takes on here? Could I step outside myself, the me who avoids looking at herself in the mirror, and create an alter ego?

One night, my alter ego makes an appearance.

I walk up to the bar and roll the dice. In front of me, a laminated card shows the possible dice rolls and the corresponding actions to get a drink. I rolled a three and a five. Number eight reads naked bartending. The decision is mine, no pressure. Consent in all things is foundational to Burning Man, and I could easily say, “No, I’m not comfortable with that,” and I would still get a drink. I make a counteroffer.ot naked, buttopless. Within a minute I’m standing behind the bar, sans dress, but with underwear still on, offering the dice to the next person who walks up to the bar.

It’s been years since that night, that one time I let myself go and lean into all that Burning Man has to offer. I was nervous, and a little jumpy, and I delighted in my ability to shock my friends, longtime burners. I think I liked shocking them more than anything else. Maybe there was more to me than they, or I wanted to admit. I’ve dissected each step and tried to figure out what made that night the night to do something totally outside my comfort zone and I’ve found no answers. In the years since, I’ve wished that confident, not-so-self-conscious version of me would come back, but so far, she hasn’t.

During the heat of the day, it is too hot to be in the tents, so napping in reclining chairs under the shade structure is expected. It is the mid-afternoon lull common to both tropical and desert cultures. Here it is aided by cold beer and the exhaustion from an early morning bike ride. My eyes are open behind my mirrored sunglasses. Two beautiful men, one a model and the other a professional ice skater, joke and challenge each other to a push-up contest. Both men are shirtless. I watch in silent admiration as a sheen of sweat begins to form on their muscular arms as they pump up and down. One remarks to the other that he could do the push-ups with the other on his back.

“I’d pay to see that.” Both men turn to look at me. They are surprised by my presence, not my words. In my old tank top and loose-fitting pants, I’m invisible, even to members of my camp. A lopsided smile spreads across my lips as I lower my sunglasses. “Please continue,” I offer.

***

Participation: Our community is committed to a radically participatory ethic. We believe that transformative change, whether in the individual or in society, can occur only through the medium of deeply personal participation. We achieve being through doing. Everyone is invited to work. Everyone is invited to play. We make the world real through actions that open the heart.

Larry Harvey, Founder of Burning Man

My first trip to Burning Man ended within seventy-two hours. It was evening, we had spent the last two days building camp, and my father did the thing he rarely does, leave camp. He had been attending for almost two decades and he was looking forward to sharing something he loved with me. We rode past the Department of Mutant Vehicles (DMV) to see art cars being checked and certified as safe for driving out on Playa and then on to The Man. My father was a bit wobbly on his bike, and so was I. It had been years since I’d ridden the old bike from college and the brakes were a little squeaky. My camera stayed back in camp on that first ride, not realizing that it would be my only ride that year. I didn’t try to hide my astonishment, swaying my body to the music, grinning at the colorful array of lights, eyeing shimmering costumes, and the overall feeling of joy in the air.

Burning Man had been a part of my life since my early twenties when my father started attending, and finally, at fourty-one years old, it was my turn. Every September for years I helped my father clean his van of Playa. The alkali dust gets into every crevice of your body and onto every item that makes the trip. We parked our bikes where we would be able to find them later, next to one of the poles marking the edge of the Man. A pair of bikes is easier to spot than a solo bike, and linked together they are less likely to be “borrowed” by someone else. Here I was, decked out in a scarf, goggles, and headlamp walking the perimeter of The Man, dust collecting around my ankles.

The Man is forty feet tall and standing under a pagoda-like structure, his legs directly connected to the desert floor. In the dark, his head, arms, body, and legs were illuminated with neon lights. For most of Burning Man his arms rest at his side, only rising minutes before being engulfed in flames. Two staircases, aligned with each arm, allow Burners to climb to the height of his thigh. My father and I walked around the base and then up the stairs. Looking down I saw hundreds of people walking, talking, dancing, and reveling in each other's presence.

Our last stop that night was the Burning Globe, a performance space where tarot and Shakespeare mixed. Radical participation. I drew my card and took the stage. As I read aloud, my voice grew stronger, the words of Lady Macbeth making their way across the spattering of people in the audience. In the default world, I speak for a living, holding the attention of dozens of students for hours at a time. This felt different. I was putting myself out there in front of strangers, and my dad. I allow Lady M’s words, summoning the strength to kill Duncan, to fill me with the courage to challenge myself in as many ways as possible over the next few days.

I finished and left the stage. The steps collapsed under me. When I hit the ground, my legs sprawled in front of me. I lifted my right arm. My hand was not where it should be. Rather, it was dislocated from my arm and offset by almost two inches. The swelling was immediate, and I forced down the bile rising in my throat. Two days later my surgeon would call it a fork fracture, the colloquial name for a Colles fracture.

In the hours that followed the fall, I was treated at the onsite medical facility. I was x-rayed and ultimately put into a K-hole. Seven years later my body still remembers the feeling of being under ketamine. I was numb to the pain of the injury, but more than that I was calm and at peace. The nurses told me that throughout the whole procedure to reset my bones I had a smile on my face and looked like I was in love. I recall a feeling of love and safety and warmth with soothing colors all around me. It might be the only time I have ever fully relaxed.

“What about all the drugs?” people ask me when I tell them I attend Burning Man. I never know how to answer the question. Yes, there are drugs. No, I don’t do them. The part I keep to myself is, sometimes I wish I did.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t get drunk, but it happens infrequently and I’m usually alone. The need to be in control of what I’m saying, how I’m presenting myself, and how I’ll be perceived supersedes everything else. The idea of taking drugs, whose effect I can’t gauge, is out of the question. “Do you really think we would think less of you if you went a little wild and let go?” Mark asks as we sit at the table, and I touch up his nail polish.

“No.”

Burning Man, with my camp friends who I know would take care of me, would be the perfect place. But something holds me back. I let go once and moved to another country for a year. If I allow myself to let go again, I might never come back.

***

Sex permeates everything at Burning Man. There isn’t anything that can’t be turned into a double entendre or viewed sexually. The bungee cords we use to create our shade structures are called ball gags. Showering with a partner saves water, and applying sunblock can be fun for you and a treat for those watching. We are a photography camp, with the lead photographer taking black and white film photos of people he finds interesting. Often, but not always, the photographs capture moments of intense intimacy, including sex in all its varied forms.

Nakedness, or some close approximation of it, is not hard to find at Burning Man. Sometimes it manifests in those who relish being their true authentic selves and choose to spend most of their time completely nude. This past year my paths crossed with a camper each morning on the way to the porta potties, I never saw him in anything more than flip-flops. Others take advantage of the idea of radical self-expression by wearing outfits that bare breasts, chests, penises, and ass cheeks. Nudity is interwoven with sex and sexuality. In the desert, the rules of the default world don’t always apply.

I rode out one morning with a portrait photographer from our camp. He planned on photographing the models nude framed against the art. I hung back, unsure of myself, not knowing if it would be okay for me to photograph. Instead, I watched him as he gave directions, moved around to catch the light on the model’s body, and framed his shots. After a time, he looked at me and said, “Either get naked or start photographing. Don’t just watch.”

I don't like to have my photograph taken fully clothed. I certainly wasn’t going to get naked next to two models, one a petite woman and the other a male adult film actor. And so, I began the process of learning how to photograph people in the nude.

Life happens in the nude at Burning Man. I have been embraced and welcomed “home” by greeters upon entrance wearing nothing but a hat, scarf, sunglasses, and combat boots. A naked bike parade happens each year, and I’ve stood in line to buy ice next to a dom with his naked sub on a leash as we talk about the weather. While volunteering at the Burning Man Ultramarathon I helped nude runners reapply sunblock as they came through the way station for their next lap. Another person’s nakedness or embrace of nudity isn’t for me to like or dislike, merely to accept. But even this has its limits. While being naked is fine, shirt cocking, the practice of men only wearing a shirt and no bottoms, is not.

We have a gallery area in front of the studio. Large format photographs are stapled to the red walls for people to stop by and enjoy. After being cautioned by federal law enforcement, all photographs depicting sex are placed on the interior walls. For years a woman named April acted as the photographer's assistant, finding interesting subjects, helping encourage participants to let down their inhibitions, and even participating in some of the shoots. She’s moved on from being a model to a photographer, and so sometimes I, or other members of the camp help inform prospective participants. Between sessions, the photographer will have a smoke, drink some water, and hold court in the gallery with those looking to have their picture taken.

Whenever it is my turn to help, I always refer to the photographer by his first name, John, or simply as the photographer. It would be weird to call him dad while encouraging people to have sex in front of him.

One morning the golden hour had passed, and the day was slow to warm. I stayed out on Playa photographing a variety of art pieces. I found a creature, a brightly painted winged jaguar atop a platform. Underneath, a set of swings welcomed passersby to rest. As I swayed slowly a woman stood at the foot of the creature. I could see her take a deep breath, hold it, and proceed up the steps. She removed a violin from its case and facing the morning sun she began to play. I stilled my body, closed my eyes, and let the music wash over me. The tension from days of hard work, a barrage of over-stimulating conversations, sexual innuendos, and pushing my limits released in a wash of tears.

The music stopped, I wiped my face dry and approached her.

“Thank you for your gift. It was beautiful.”

“You're welcome. I haven’t played in front of anyone in years. I thought I might try.”

“I’d like to give you a gift in return,” I explained that I am from a photography camp and wanted her to have a photograph to take home. “Bring your violin and tell the photographer that Sarah sent you. He’ll make sure you get to the front of the line.” I gave her our address, and we parted ways.

Later that evening I checked in with my father as he sat in the gallery smoking.

“The woman you sent, the one with the violin, she was excellent.”

“You make it sound as if I’m an apprentice to a serial killer bringing you a victim,” I said laughing. “I’m glad. She gave me the most wonderful gift this morning when she played.” Years later her photograph appeared in one of my dad’s collections, I picked her out right away. She played her violin for him, naked in the desert.

***

About a mile from center camp, past the Man along the six o’clock axis, you will find the Temple. It is hallowed ground, a place for reverence and remembrance, humor and heartbreak, solitude and solidarity. Something changes when you pass through one of the many openings leading to the inside. The massive wooden structure, built to be burned, is airy and filled with light, and voices are hushed. The wooden beams are covered in posters, writing, photographs, and memorials.

I walk in silence, mindful of every footstep. Sometimes I pause to read letters written to those who have died or smile at the pictures of beloved pets that have passed. One year there a wedding dress hung from the sides with a note pinned on the front. It reads, “Note to self. Don’t marry an asshole.” I smile, because isn’t that the truth? In 2022, the first year back since Covid, I stood for a long time writing the names of those I’d lost since September of 2019.

This year, I wrote my name. Mourning the loss of a version of me that I’d lost along the way. Each year from my first up through 2019 I pushed aside trepidation and fear, swallowed insecurities, and took risks. Each time I grew a little bolder and surer of myself. My alter ego grew, showed herself more often, and pushed boundaries. In those years my friend Jess would drop off a care package containing mini bottles of alcohol, condoms, and an admonishment to let go and get laid. The bottles were emptied, and the condoms were unused. But each year, I felt like something might finally change. It was exhausting and rewarding. That person died with Covid. She did not make a reappearance at Burning Man 2022 or 2023. It was as if everything I had gained was gone. In the intervening years I became more insular and more self-conscious, my need to be alone and have space had grown all while my family needed me more and more.

I sit in the dust next to the spot where I’ve written my name and cry. I do not try to stop the thoughts running through my mind, but I try to accept them for what they are, a part of me. After a little while a woman approaches, kneels, and hands me a tissue.

“Would you like a hug?” she asks.

I nod, smile weakly, and we wrap our arms around each other.