OFLUXO

As she walked in Simone hadn’t fully understood where she was at first. She had been driven by the sight of frills, artificial flowers and decorative ceramics, all of which reminded her – with excitement – of her first marriage. She had always cultivated her own taste in furnishings as a sixth sense, almost an art. Soon enough she found herself in the presence of other creatures – “neighbours.”, “That’s lovely!” – who were introduced to her without delay. As they explained to her, this little world had decided to converge in this place that serves as the village square to form a peculiar partnership. It was an underworld boudoir, halfway between the ballroom, the ghost train and the accountingmanagement firm, and maybe more. What funny neighbours they are Simone thought as she wondered what they were doing in shorts, for it was no longer August. Especially since they weren’t bad looking boys.

She found the first neighbour, Michel Jocaille, to have a bubbly and cheerful air. From the outset, he spoke to her about the imaginary in Lacan, Barthes and Bataille. Sensing that she was struggling a bit, he tried to talk about art instead, for they were artists themselves. Precisely: on a sort of carpet-cushion stretched in a frame, he had printed the distorted image of a piece of marble reflected on a mirror vinyl paper. All his thoughts revolved around the reflection and the way in which we construct an image of ourselves: femininity, virility and their possible transgression. For him, as he explained, sculpting could consist of shaping bodies as well as disguising objects. The aim remains to modify the perception of selves and things. And as she listened attentively, Simone began to detail the shapes of two other sculptures that were right next to them, and in which she recognised his style. It took her a little while to discern the fitness machines under the frills and falbalas. “Fuck machines” he corrected, bubbling more brightly, and she pretended not to hear. On the other hand, she understood immediately that Michel’s grandmother had helped him with the sewing and the soaked flowers, but that he did add the lilies. She thought it was all very sweet.

In the second neighbour, Cyril Debon, Simone sensed a hint of mischief behind his affable appearance. He had recently set up a modelling agency right next door. Models who – should we bother to say so? – were frogs. A paragon, as they say, of the transgression of the feminine and the masculine, a mixture of virile croak and sensitive mucous membranes, the frogs had quickly become muses. They had embedded themselves all over Michel’s muscular benches, to participate with a composed negligence. Posing and friendly, they were naturally at one with the coquettishness of the décor, the bistro ashtrays and the TVs on 24 hours a day. They knew how to use camouflage and idleness together with an uncommon art. On the walls, they appeared in a series of images with a slightly retro sensuality: a project of promotional posters and postcards for a southern seaside town. Glossy bodies, sunny embraces, popular beaches, striped swimming costumes: a collective unconscious. Mannequin Madelaine, as the agency was called, had hit again.

This all gave Simone impressions of an early summer, the amphibian atmosphere of luxuriant undergrowth, the smell of pheromones and monoi spray. Simone thought to herself: it wasn’t so surprising that these two had teamed up, since they were basically two sides of the same trade. One decorates objects that are used to shape beautiful bodies. The other uses mannequins to pose as decorative objects. And both of them learned everything from the work of their foremothers, but that’s what she told herself in her inner self.

At this point in her reflections Simone, happy and satisfied, was about to wave goodbye to the company and go back to watch the news. It was then that she saw a greenish figure appear in the room that she seemed to know by heart. Recognizable among all by her endless thighs, the model from Mannequin Madelaine entered. In a breath, everyone congratulated her (or him?) for having taken a liking to the proteins, since, as they said, it gave him a plastic that was both more powdery and more fluid. The creature approached their little group and simply said, in a shrill voice: “seeing you guys makes me feel just like smoking cigarettes after sex”. Simone understood, or wanted to understand, “cigarettes after six”. The model handed her one. Simone checked: it was seven thirty. To her own surprise, she took it and accepted the flame that was offered to her. She took a long puff. It reminded her, all of a sudden, of the languor and piquancy of her younger years.