Installation art › La mort d’un mannequin (The death of a mannequin)

‹ Previous :: Next ›
 

The Death of a Mannequin

In wool or in silk, moiré or sequins, the idol
was in bad form.

On the evening of the show, strangely awkward, she tore her dress and turned out her socks, vaguely distressed. Panicking suddenly, she left her boots in the wings and, labriously packed into a bridal gown, was on the verge of fainting into the arms of an unknown gentleman dressed in black. She lay down in the dust of her dressing room and fell asleep in saintly Chanel.

It was the ultimate special effect by Madame Thanatopraxie.

They collected her linens, folded her shirts, and left her in a simple fitted coat of pine.

Private fashion show.

Christian adorned her in extravagant earrings, Jean-Paul delivered a couple of witticisms, Yves cried a lot, Karl took a final photo.

She had become “that something or other that has no name in any language”.

A.C.
(trans. Kim Marohn)