An essay for Francis by Gabrrielle Ayles
Barbie Thoughts
My boyfriend and I are lost in Value Village. Racks of clothes dangle like the discarded pelts of richer, better looking hunters with the cash to travel to the safaris of Robson and Granville. Not to worry- those people are poseurs, inartistic uninspired fools who don't understand real shopping, hardcore bargain bin dig through the rubble shopping, our practice and our discipline. We feed off of their leavings, these losers at the top of the fashion food chain, and wonder if dumpster divers have the same envious contempt for us.
Anyway.
Francis and I are small, unmuscular people and as such we have a cart. The cart is stacked with things he's picked for us. At the bottom is an atlas, a pair of pink earmuffs and a tape by a Russian composer I'm pretending to care about, alibis and talismans to prove that I am seriously involved in the shopping process (we'll ditch them at the cash in favour of big woolly coats). Francis is dexterously picking through the racks, briskly flicking each relic with a glance before rejecting it. Every few minutes he'll stop and stare solemnly at something, maybe stroking it lightly while murmuring. These are mostly bypassed, but the lucky few are lowered into the cart to join their chosen brethren. I'm trotting along in his wake, sort of gingerly tapping everything before grabbing a broken children's toy and faking orgasm.
Reading back, I'm misrepresenting us a little. I am indeed confused in the store, I clutch the tape of a Russian composer and do not share Francis' love of dress-up. He is in his element, flicking and rejecting and exclaiming. But we are not a nervous and self-absorbed shopping team. We are chatty and determinedly amiable, and through his focus he is concerned at my distraction. Sometimes he hands me cigarettes, and I sit outside to talk to passerby and confess to not knowing the time, not wanting a good time, and not having extra cigarettes. Excellent restoration.
The store when I return is remarkable for its complete lack of style. Value Village is a warehouse, a cavernous room lit with the cheapest fluorescent and none too concerned with cleanliness. Every kind of abandoned merchandise is thrown onto white plywood shelves, on top of other unwanted objects remembering of the day they made a splash at the mall. There is no decoration, no sense of presentation, just unpretentious used stuff to be had cheaply. It attracts every sort of person, whizzing, shambling, breezing and methodically picking through the aisles. Hookers are beating furtive housewives to the 2-for-1 bin while young punks seriously debate the pleather with a hole or the fishnet. Francis is nestled in the shoe section, lovingly fingering penny loafers and mary janes.
He has this ability I lack, to strip away surface information and see things in personal context. Looking around the store, I get sidetracked by an ugly, practical little world. Francis sees the style and beauty in a silky flowered jacket, the way blue slacks would look with a shirt I have.
"Fit, then colour, then you can play." he tells me while I'm watching teenagers shoplift 50 cent t-shirts.
What type of artist are you?
My boyfriend and I are lost in Value Village. Racks of clothes dangle like the discarded pelts of richer, better looking hunters with the cash to travel to the safaris of Robson and Granville. Not to worry- those people are poseurs, inartistic uninspired fools who don't understand real shopping, hardcore bargain bin dig through the rubble shopping, our practice and our discipline. We feed off of their leavings, these losers at the top of the fashion food chain, and wonder if dumpster divers have the same envious contempt for us.
Anyway.
Francis and I are small, unmuscular people and as such we have a cart. The cart is stacked with things he's picked for us. At the bottom is an atlas, a pair of pink earmuffs and a tape by a Russian composer I'm pretending to care about, alibis and talismans to prove that I am seriously involved in the shopping process (we'll ditch them at the cash in favour of big woolly coats). Francis is dexterously picking through the racks, briskly flicking each relic with a glance before rejecting it. Every few minutes he'll stop and stare solemnly at something, maybe stroking it lightly while murmuring. These are mostly bypassed, but the lucky few are lowered into the cart to join their chosen brethren. I'm trotting along in his wake, sort of gingerly tapping everything before grabbing a broken children's toy and faking orgasm.
Reading back, I'm misrepresenting us a little. I am indeed confused in the store, I clutch the tape of a Russian composer and do not share Francis' love of dress-up. He is in his element, flicking and rejecting and exclaiming. But we are not a nervous and self-absorbed shopping team. We are chatty and determinedly amiable, and through his focus he is concerned at my distraction. Sometimes he hands me cigarettes, and I sit outside to talk to passerby and confess to not knowing the time, not wanting a good time, and not having extra cigarettes. Excellent restoration.
The store when I return is remarkable for its complete lack of style. Value Village is a warehouse, a cavernous room lit with the cheapest fluorescent and none too concerned with cleanliness. Every kind of abandoned merchandise is thrown onto white plywood shelves, on top of other unwanted objects remembering of the day they made a splash at the mall. There is no decoration, no sense of presentation, just unpretentious used stuff to be had cheaply. It attracts every sort of person, whizzing, shambling, breezing and methodically picking through the aisles. Hookers are beating furtive housewives to the 2-for-1 bin while young punks seriously debate the pleather with a hole or the fishnet. Francis is nestled in the shoe section, lovingly fingering penny loafers and mary janes.
He has this ability I lack, to strip away surface information and see things in personal context. Looking around the store, I get sidetracked by an ugly, practical little world. Francis sees the style and beauty in a silky flowered jacket, the way blue slacks would look with a shirt I have.
"Fit, then colour, then you can play." he tells me while I'm watching teenagers shoplift 50 cent t-shirts.
What type of artist are you?