“A LYRICAL JOURNEY THROUGH BELLEDEJOUR ONIRISM”
BY LUCA DOBRY


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JE NE FAIS PAS LA MODE, JE SUIS LA MODE! 


and so the rabbit escapes down the glory hole. Whatever you do, don’t stop recording, says Dziga Vertov. We crawl, following obediently. In front of us is a giant clock, melting… Our bodies begin undulating, our human shape subjected only to the caprices of the fabric now cascading on us. Even our skin is no longer tissue but denim, silk, leather, plastic. As we try to find our way forward, strolling through luxurious dressrooms of lost civilisations, bizarre designers come to fulfil our wildest fantasies. The garments transform us: into Greek sex deities, or megalomaniac dictators, then Michael Jordan in a Space Jam, now Mulan ready to take down a hundred men. The furry devil keeps running away, but we finally get  hold of a toy Ferrari and catch up to him. When J grabs it, its ears turn red and begin to grow long towards the sky. We look up, we have never seen a light so black. We must be in the ultralight beam.

Il'y a rien que j'aime tant comme le souleil d'autumn… souleil noir. je vous trouve tres elegant, aimez vous l'argent?


A rain of hundred dollar bills is storming on us, but as much as we can see the riches, they turn to ash as soon as we touch them. A bass-fat trap beat makes the floor tremble, and so we look down, only to realize beneath our feet is asphalt, the most glamourous and yet precarious type. This is where we grew up. Where we smoked our first joint right after losing our virginity. We are in the same old square, the same old streets. The Museum of Modern Art, with its smooth white surfaces, stands tall before us. And it dawns on us, having travelled across the lands of pleasure and pain, of beauty and terror, of class and decadence, we have never really left the neighbourhood. The sound of skateboards hitting the marble provides the instrumental to which a gang of kids rap there in the corner, engulfed by perfume and the smell of piss, their backs turned against the world.

cet crissante odeur des fleures mortes


The gallery is free admission on Sundays, so we walk in. A host boasting the cruellest smile approaches us. Wearing a 1965 Yves Saint-Laurent dress, it strolls around the room with the grace of a Russian ballerina dancer before falling on P’s feet. She leans to caress it, and it, holding the back of her neck whistles to her ear:

comment vous apelle mademoiselle?
belle de jour,
she says
ah c’est charmant, j'avais un chat qui s'apellait belle du sombre


two golden tickets are in our hands, the Arabic words read:

BIENVENUES A LA PREMIERE EXPOSITION INTERNATIONALE DU BELLEDEJOUR


A group of young barely dressed demoiselles are running up and down the ramps. We get to the big round room where the girls have gathered, just in time to witness the sacrifice. A blond girl with ivory skin tears the rabbit apart with a pink knife, and gives a piece of it to each girl in the room. When they are done eating it, red pointy ears start to grow out of the top of their heads, which have also turned red. Some have the silhouette of the rabbit woven on their chest, others have it tattooed on their skin, in red ink. P drops her Prada pochette, making a loud noise that disrupts their troublesome silence. They turn their head to us, it is unclear if they are angry at us or actually inviting us to get closer. The one with the chocolate skin walks towards us.

Nous non comptait pas plus sour vous, vous ettes parties tellment brusquement cet matin… venez, entrez.


In the next chamber, a group of three debate about the tragic beauty of the Guernica, and on the opposite wall, the girl with the name of roses paints black strokes with the fury of a thousand fallen angels. AMOR she screams—on the dirtiest streets, on exquisite canvases—and immediately she crosses it out:

L'amour est un piège


We check into the hotel room were the King of the Underground is staying for his gig in the city. He tells us wonderful stories of his naughtiest nights in Pigalle, of catwalking backwards like Lucifer on the Vetements show. No se dónde está mi mujer. But we know.

Je suis madame Anaïs, voici le post-post-moderne


Absent-mindedly, the Queen of the Underground licks her fingertips, covered by glittery MDMA crystals. Next to her, the new darling of Spanish cinema sits on a Bauhaus chair— her rabbit ears are bent frontwards, she is bored from the notifications rushing on her iphone screen.

It´s infierno tonight, we are ready. We have crafted the images, designed the styles. La Folie says to roll our dices: fuck a job! And so we walk to the middle of the dancefloor. The warmness of América Latina and too far removed African roots runs down our white culture´s spine. Turns out we can twerk this bitch.

Looking at them dance and talking shit about Art School, we feel proud of all our children. True talent around here. Like Virgil said, these kids don’t realize the power they have.

The damned rabbit has taken new shape, now it lives inside our heads. Of course, we have grown red ears too. On a red velvet couch the shape of lips lay two girls: one is the most beautiful man has ever seen, the other is the ugliest. Both turn us on immensely. We had a foursome, it was beautiful.

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