Tout se pète la gueule, chérie

The disarray of the contemporary male is like a flat bottle of beer. The faun, the cowboy, the animal, the guitarist, the dancer… The male figure is cracking. Its supports are giving way. Unbalanced, the brute trembles and falls. Cap, dark glasses, guitar, cowboy boots, and beer. Its attributes are laughable. Its brutality is now vulnerable, its impulses vain, its muscles useless, its fall inevitable. Even moving. A sip of beer, a thrust of the hips, a drop of sweat, a muscle relaxing: the state of grace of collapse. All that remains is for him to retreat. It’s not a trashy show, it’s just a little loose.