I am Dina. Dark chestnut hair to the shoulders, always styled in vintage pin-up curls — that is my calling card. Greenish-hazel eyes, a light warm tan, a beauty mark on the left cheek, a small black star tattoo on the inside of my right wrist. My era is the 1950s: red lipstick, black liner, seamed stockings. My show features a metre-and-a-half fan of pink ostrich feathers that I open as part of my body. I am the only one in the catalogue who does real classic vintage burlesque with a feather fan and chair-routine. My signature look — pin-up cabaret bunny in pink satin with white cuffs.
My stage: real vintage burlesque
I am the only one in the catalogue doing the genre at its source: classic burlesque as it was staged in the theatres of the fifties — a metre-and-a-half ostrich feather fan, a full chair routine, and technique that takes years to learn and never looks like work. The fan is not a prop but a limb: it opens, hides, reveals and jokes, and in the right hands it tells a whole story without a word. This is the genre everything we do today grew out of — and I keep it alive.
What a show with me looks like
Like a cabaret number, not a dance in a living room: an entrance in a long evening gown with the fan closed, a slow opening where the crowd realises it is watching technique, a middle with the chair routine — the part everyone films — and a finale where the fan does what only it can. I work with gentle humour: a raised eyebrow, a stop in the unexpected place, a wink that breaks the room open. The full skeleton of the hour — on the solo page; with me it is built like a vaudeville programme.
My characters
The cabaret bunny — the crown character: pink satin, white cuffs, ears — the visual classic of the genre, and with me it comes with technique, not just a costume. The retro movie star — a shimmering gown, gloves, a "red carpet interview" the guest of honour conducts himself without realising he has stepped into the show. The lady of the fans — the pure edition: just me, two fans, and a single light. The full wardrobe — on the costume page; with me every character passes through the vintage filter.
How I differ from Alina
We are both retro, and we are asked about it constantly — so let us settle it: Alina is the romance of the fifties — swing, domestic magic, an evening that smiles at you; I am the burlesque of those same years — cabaret, technique, the fan, a stage number built by the rules of the genre. She is the pick for a warm family evening; I am the pick for an evening that wants a performance. We both enjoy the question, and if it is still hard to choose, the team asks two questions and settles it in a minute.
Where I am strongest
Milestones are my home ground: fiftieth, sixtieth, sometimes seventieth — a crowd that recognises the genre, applauds in the right places, and leaves feeling it attended a performance. I am strong in big house living rooms and small halls, and above all in places where people can sit around: the patio houses of Modiin and the halls of Holon are addresses I return to. Elegant company evenings too — my burlesque plays beautifully to a mixed crowd, because it is funny before it is seductive.
One moment from the field
A sixtieth birthday in Modiin, on the patio, thirty guests and mostly women. I opened in a long gown with the fan closed — some of the guests still thought I was a singer. When the fan opened for the first time there was a collective intake of breath; after the chair routine they were already shouting for more. At the end the birthday man said he had not known burlesque was "this beautiful", and his wife asked for my number — for her own birthday. That, broadly, is the story of my career.
How I prepare
The curls are the profession: an hour and a half of rolling, pins and patience, because real pin-up does not come out of a single appliance. The fans are checked feather by feather before every show — a broken ostrich feather is visible from across the room, and I replace them twice a year. I straighten my seamed stockings at the mirror until the line is perfectly straight; that is the detail nobody can name but everybody feels. And on the way — old jazz, always the same album, like a ritual.
My playlist
Big band, burlesque swing, seductive blues with horns and saxophone, and a little modern electro-swing when the crowd is young. I keep one entirely classic set — as if recorded in 1956 — and a modern one for crews that want tempo. The chair routine always runs on the same track: I found it eight years ago and have not touched it since. Some songs simply work.
Who I am not the right choice for
Loud parties with high volume and nine drops — not my genre: my tempo belongs to a jazz band, not a DJ; the catalogue holds excellent energies for noise and I will happily point you there. A crew looking mainly for physical closeness will find with me a distinctly staged performance — beautiful, funny and precise, but staged. And whoever loves this genre knows exactly why they came.
Five small facts about me
My fans have names — Varda and Zehava, and do not ask how that happened. The little star on my wrist is my only tattoo, chosen so it would look like part of the character's jewellery. I collect records — a hundred and eighty, every one of them played at least once. I buy my red lipstick in threes, because in this genre there is no such thing as "almost the same shade". And my closing bow is genuine vintage — I learned it from footage of a dancer from 1954.
An evening with me — step by step
17:30 — curls: an hour and a half, no shortcuts. 19:30 — a feather-by-feather fan check. 21:00 — departure with the usual jazz. 21:45 — "I am here", a plain-clothes entrance, a quiet change. 22:00 — a long gown, a closed fan, and the room still has no idea what is coming. An hour of cabaret: opening, technique, the chair routine, a finale of feathers. 23:05 — a bow from 1954, one feather deliberately left on the floor. Something to smile at tomorrow morning.
Frequently asked
Burlesque, fan, vintage. The classic genre at its source — a metre-and-a-half feather fan, a chair routine and years of technique.
She is the romance of the fifties — swing and domestic magic; I am the burlesque of those same years — cabaret, the fan, a stage number by the rules of the genre.
That is my specialty: vintage burlesque is funny before it is seductive, which is why it works beautifully even when half the crowd is women.
A classic piece of the genre: an ordinary chair, two minutes, and technique everyone films. All I need is a stable chair without armrests.
"Dina" with a date and a city on WhatsApp. A fiftieth or sixtieth? Mention it — I have an opening built exactly for that.
