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The little girls, four to eight years old, form a line backstage, demanding a kiss from Prince Charming. Prince Charming, a gay guy, texts his fellow – “How did I get talked into this? Got to kiss all these girls! I’m an actor, for god’s sake!” Pay is good, though. Before the show, the little girls were restless already, fidgeting in anticipation, no idea Prince Charming is not who he is, no suspension of disbelief. PC hides his phone, flips back his golden locks, and his charming smile opens the door to his dressing room. The little girls fire up.

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“This is obviously not art.” “Because they changed Best of Luck with Best of F…?” “Please!” He was making another point. The giggles died down, outside the station, writings everywhere; they thought those fonts were not available in Microsoft Word. It was also the, well, artistic process: at night, on the sly, “how can they see the colors if it’s dark?”, “it’s not legal, you know.” Surely writing that This City is Anti-fascist & Always Will Be was a cliché, but the unassuming flower next to it, thin black stem, red petals starting to wither, welled up an inexplicable tear.

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The world doesn’t have time for this street dancer, his white undershirt and black pants, his slowed-down watery Black Swan, his crystal ball rolling over arms, shoulders, hands, fingers – it never falls! There’s so much else, after all. Like people who turn into fashionable streets or buildings as if they lived there, striving to give that casual impression to those looking. And there are many. Being surprised, deceived possibly, but always to be kept in the dark about the person they glimpsed at rushing by being or not somebody important. Or, some day, a star. Étoiles, they call them.

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An unusual post to thank all those who came out last night and participated in our first interactive and bilingual exhibit #I am the Passenger.

This imaginary trip through town couldn’t have been any better. Thanks.

The exhibit will run till November 17.


ps March 2017 2

At some popular exhibition in town. The uniformed girl, who had been seen getting off the bus at the corner in a terrible rush (several times), was on her high chair reading. Now ambling by the same work of art. Is it really? Yes. No. Drowning into its details. Brushing by the surface of its general idea. It’s not worth much. It’s a masterpiece. From two to five pm in Room B. Then Room D for three hours. Different works; different ideas – explicative panels available in five languages. “Excuse me, could I…?” “Please.” “Do you know where the…?” End of the hall, to the left – she pointed at it, the WC door, white in the white wall, could’ve looked like a work of art itself, if only he had signed it. The next days she was still rushing off the bus, running late.


ps 21

I look at myself in the spoon I use for breakfast. Every morning, both sides. My face is normal and then upside down.

If you hold the spoon by the handle, gently, I’ve come up with this trick to make it spin non-stop: pushing it with your thumb and pulling it back with your middle finger. Let it just slide on the index. Upside down and right side up, and the face never stops changing…

Sometimes I look at my face upside down and I bend the spoon back and forward so that my forehead gets twice as big and my hairline is pulled back, or my nostrils turn into huge holes right in the middle of a face with no mouth.

I can use the lenses of sunglasses too if I’m facing the sun, but spoons are best.


Ps 70

The little girls were standing in line beside the dressing rooms. 4 to 8 years old. They wanted to be kissed by Prince Charming. Prince Charming was a gay guy – behind the curtains, he was writing texts to his boyfriend telling him about the situation. “How did I get myself in this fix? I’ve got to kiss all these kids – yuck!I’m an actor, for god’s sake!”

The performance hadn’t started yet and the little girls were getting restless, their tiny hands squeezing their mother’s and father’s in anticipation, who were thinking, along with some introspective actors, that those little creatures had no idea Prince Charming was not who he was, and their suspension of disbelief – only one actor thought of this – didn’t even exist. 

There was no disbelief and, therefore, no suspension.

Prince Charming put the phone down, tossed the curtain aside and made his entrance with his charming smile upon his face.

The little girls fired up.