On the invitation of Art & Essai gallery

Aude Anquetil, Hilary Galbreaith, Brieg Huon, Nicolas Pesquier are part of GENERATOR #4

Galerie Art & Essai – Project Room
Université Rennes 2 – Campus Villejean
Place du recteur Henri le Moal – 35000 Rennes

“The exhibition is a kind of theatre, where several perceptions successively make their appearance; pass, repass, glide away, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations.”
David Homme, Treatise on Human Culture

It’s dark in the room. There are still a few hours before the public arrives.

Between D.H., to the left.

He is wearing a jacket cut from a pale coloured fabric, over a black jogging suit with two thin white stripes on each side. He walks convincingly to the exact mid-point of the stage, his eyelids half down, like Bowie.
One can hear the clacking of the spotlight that suddenly lights up a lunar circle around the silhouetted figure against the long, dark and rigid curtain.

Then, with a slow movement of foot stirring, the show is announced. He raises his head, his pupils dilated under the warming light, fixed on an imperceptible point below the empty seats. A sound like almost a purr escapes from his unfolded lips.
Behind him, the red curtain crumples then rises without sound, revealing a symphony orchestra whose brass instruments shimmer and strings suddenly vibrate.

(Based on a cover version of Lollipop)

A little provocative, short, sounding good,
POSTPOP, this is here immediately,
If LOLLIPOP is a sweet treat,
POSTPOP spices because it is too salty,
POSTPOP dries out but shines,
POSTPOP slides like anise,
POSTPOP is already over.

Un peu provoque, court, qui sonne bien,
POSTPOP, c’est ici immédiatement,
Si LOLLIPOP est une douceur sucrée,
POSTPOP pique car trop salé,
POSTPOP dessèche mais brille,
POSTPOP glisse comme l’anis,
POSTPOP c’est déjà fini.)

With one hand, the conductor sketches a volute, the lights go out, except a shining circle.
D.H. inhales, a drop of sweat runs down his forehead, trembles, flies away:

“So much for the belief in life, the most precarious thing in life, real life I mean, that in the end this belief is lost. We are beautiful, young and proud, and the art we produce makes us eternal. We don’t mince our words, we have the same base, the power rangers and colour in the work of Nicolas Poussin, the opium scrolls of the Orientalists and the dilated pupils of Parisian clubs, the eroticism of Battle and the asexual Eloise of Wells, the kilts of Scottish clans and Manchester United hooligans, the reason for the Pascalian effects and the sweet warmth of a family restaurant, W. Morris’s Art and the construction of Homer Simpson’s barbecue…”

His eyelid trembles, his gaze is lost in the crowd, and the dust shines in the damp atmosphere of the gloomy theatre.

“We will fight, brothers, sisters, until the advent of post-pop. We don’t care about the monotonous daily life, the baseness of the real, we will only fight to raise fiction to the rank of absolute, we will fall into a world, panic-stricken, from which we will never again feel the pungent dust of the ordinary. No more post-modernism, no more post-internet, no more post-punk, no, we’ve entered a new era, the post-pop. Pop is dead, long live Postpop!”

A door slams away, in the dark vastness of the theatre, beyond the rows of empty seats. D.H. stares at the invisible crowd with a kind smile, winks at his next audience and leaves the stage.

H.G., A.A., N.P., B.H.