Tout l'art du monde

The world spun between the cracks of the filthy cardboard sign of “The dada club”. Art began to exist when she knocked at the dingy red door, falling apart, with no reminiscence of it‘s prestigious past, prestige was the last of the attributes the époque allowed.

The gap of red slides a la gauche and terminally leaves out a husky voice shouting drunkenly. “Sign and pass”, the accent ever so heavy and the sound faceless to her. Lenin eats a pie. What flavor? Maracuya. Why strawberry not? He is allergic, he might die. Long life to the red!

Smoke lets her in, with a fine line of hashish streaming through her, riding slowly into the DaDa, she’s the spy in the house of love, but she knows no dreams that they are dreaming off, and the foggy atmosphere leaves her into oblivion, faces have no trace of remembrance, no trace of humanity, these people? People are they? They do not exist, they resist. Silhouettes move rapidly into the claustrophobic room, a basement made of windows and high top ceilings, and fabric inundating the floors, the covers, the mattress, everyone swallowed by a piece of scarf and the burning papers from a lamp, lava lamps on every coffee table stolen from any nearby bistro.

The clash of sounds, there is a slow Françese tongue licking up the silence with a careless argument thrown into the windless room.

“La revolutión. La revolutión, La revolutión” Her senses are daft and unbearable, la revolution she speaks off, the carnival of individual crowds listens eagerly, but responds nothing, no one has nothing to say. Perhaps it only echoed in silence, she can speak their tongue, their sweet perfumed letters and paroles.

Oh and she knows their deepest secret fears, when faces matter so little and naked bodies of every kind slip past her into the aura of darkness in her memory. Everything is filtered through the cells of her mind, the tissue of kind and extravagant melting into nothing through her.