Welcome To The Desert Of

A Woman Spent All Christmas Day In A Telephone Box Without Ringing Anyone. If Someone Comes To Phone, She Leaves The Box, Then Resumes Her Place Afterwards. No One Calls Her Either, But From A Window In The Street, Someone Watched Her All Day, No Doubt Since They Had Nothing Better To Do. The Christmas Syndrome.

Images Have Become Our True Sex Objects. It Is This Promiscuity And The Ubiquity Of Images, This Viral Contamination Of Images Which Are The Fatal Characteristics Of Our Culture.

It Is Always The Same: Once You Are Liberated, You Are Forced To Ask Who You Are.

Deep Down, No One Really Believes They Have A Right To Live. But This Death Sentence Generally Stays Tucked Away, Hidden Beneath The Difficulty Of Living. If That Difficulty Is Removed From Time To Time, Death Is Suddenly There, Unintelligibly.

This False Distance Is Present Everywhere: In Spy Films, In Godard, In Modern Advertising, Which Uses It Continually As A Cultural Allusion. It Is Not Really Clear In The End Whether This 'cool' Smile Is The Smile Of Humour Or That Of Commercial Complicity. This Is Also The Case With Pop, And Its Smile Ultimately Encapsulates All Its Ambiguity: It Is Not The Smile Of Critical Distance, But The Smile Of Collusion