Country Clic
François Curlet Insert Jef Geys
In the mall parking lot, children press their noses against the windows of freshly parked cars, little apprentice glaziers armed with their natural suction cups — early lollipops of consumer desire. They are ready.
With the fake coin slipped into the cart’s chain lock, the mini community is primed for its rally, powered by a Cofinoga card. A polar expedition for the imagination — the Leclerc cultural center plays along with a selection of France Loisirs and France Inter. Entry tickets for the Zénith concerts are listed in dry-erase marker on a whiteboard: zwip — a swipe of chamois leather, and the next quarter is scheduled.
In the appliance section, the saleswomen warn against Chinese products; Franco-Tunisian made is advised.
A few hundred kilometers away, a covered fair. An art fair with overpriced booths and works exuding originality and uniqueness — or nearly so, within a margin of three to five copies. The aisles are lined with small signs displaying the names of the sellers, a kind of VIP endcap. Few suction-cup children here, but a population dressed in matching shades — an international magazine aesthetic walking the aisles back and forth. Styles vary with purchasing power.
Some are there to deliver persuasive oral service about the displayed items. Occasionally, the artists themselves are on-site, doubling as wine stewards — the same types found in the fine wines section of a hypermarket, minus the bow tie. Among the supporters: thirtysomethings dressed straight out of Brooklyn — proxy hipsters. Modest buyers but trend diffusers, like bees pollinating receptive pistils, noses in the air. Communication is quick and casual: “Hey, how are you… I loved your piece.”
Most crucial in the chain of influence — passed on as much by sight as by word — are the advisers, like potato beetles dancing across jackets, ready to be peeled. The curators are here too, peppering the visitor flow. Some, credentialed experts, help give coherence to artworks through group exhibitions, tracing imaginary threads and offering a community of thought — both spontaneous and calculated. Many wannabe curators pose as shepherds, but if you look closely at their feet, you’ll spot the sheep hooves. They’re here to belong, and to be sheared. Everyone finds their role.
The magnetic pull of the anonymous collective work, the industrial product, or the individual piece — when it reveals a delightful chain of elaboration from a strange recipe — remains a source of pleasure. It’s what keeps the whole carousel turning, even if, in the heat of the hustle, that goal becomes blurry. Authors, forever eager to hog the spotlight due to a lack of distinguishing marks, start to bite as soon as the herd scatters or regroups. So buried in the present from aiming at the future, time is counted in expiration dates. A commedia dell’arte without the obligation to swallow the pizza.
A common denominator runs through all the players: that of the candidate.