Today in Paris, lovers are spent by the government, their die-hard hearts rolling from the tops of decommissioned fire engines. News comes at second hand, but decisions made in Spring lay a feast for carbon intensive projects, subsidising funerals for the senses. We are in serious danger and embroidered opera coats, activists in sequinned caps, spattered with fake blood. Today in Paris, we are out of commission, out of money, out of brush strokes and real-life piercings, drenched in intricate plumes and beetroot from a military future, out of control. The meter is ticking. Today in Paris, backstage activists rethink children, frogmarched in remnants of fuchsia feathers, jumping off ladders with the tell-tale signatures of Blade Runner and Extinction Rebellion, shiny gold lips kissing fit models into devastating consequences. Even loss has its limits. Today in Paris, black high-octane boots twist remnants of campaigners into waiting vehicles, chopping them up and punking them out, as police prepare to bring their directional concepts to life.
Oz Hardwick