from nocilla dream: 65
today, on the strip of land in the south of paris where Guy Debord and his coreligionist-Situationists put his Theory of Dérive into practice in 1960, there is a large number of portacabins, scattered here and there apparently at random, and people living there. The buildings that were under construction in the 1960s are nowhere to be seen. All that remains are these sheet metal living spaces, virtually untouched, in which the workmen used to get changed or stop to eat a sandwich; a hundred or so people live in them now. Peter is an artist from San Francisco who was drawn to Europe some years back because of an interest in Land Art. These hybrid territories, he says to Françoise as he hands over the tin of ravioli, pointing at the grouping of portacabins, are authentic works of art, created by the bringing together of disparate elements. Françoise takes the tin opener, using it so deftly, in a matter of seconds, that it’s as though she was born with the implement attached to her body, and empties the contents into a small pan. Peter focuses on the parabolic movement of her chest, and on her bare feet. They sit in the shade, looking at the door to the portacabin, which stands ajar. A sharp strip of light cuts into it, warming the metal, bringing about a diaphanous shimmer, as though the light itself were being cooked on contact. Did you know, Peter says, that there was a North American artist in the 60s who called a highway that was under construction a work of art? Françoise shakes her head. You have large, beautiful feet, continues Peter, like this place, like that highway, also under construction. They’re falling apart—poverty is making its presence felt. They turn off the flame, pass the pan and the spoon back and forth. This ravioli, says Peter, this particular brand, when it’s just past its sell-by date like this, it tastes rather gamey, don’t you think? I find it exquisite! he says. Françoise carries on examining her feet.