Hidden door

 What we are living is the absorption of all virtual modes of expression into that of advertising. All original cultural forms, all determined languages, are absorbed into it because it is without depth, instantaneous, and instantly forgotten. Triumph of the superficial form, lowest common denominator of all meanings, zero degree of meaning, triumph of entropy over all possible tropes. The lowest form of the energy of the sign.

This inarticulate, instantaneous form, without past, without future, without possible metamorphosis, since it is the last one, holds power over all the others. All current forms of activity tend toward advertising, and most of them exhaust themselves there. Not necessarily nominal advertising, the kind that presents itself as such, but the advertising form, that of a simplified operational mode, vaguely seductive, vaguely consensual (all modalities are merged within it, but in a diluted, weakened mode). More generally, the advertising form is that in which all singular contents cancel each other out at the very moment in which they are able to be transcribed into one another, whereas the essence of “heavy” statements, of articulated forms of meaning (or style), lies in their impossibility to translate into one another, no more than the rules of a game.

Jean Baudrillard, Simulacres et simulation, tel Gallimard, p. 131-132

 

Ignatius, facing the image hanging on the wall of his psychiatrist Lucian’s office, after a long moment during which he had been unable to speak of it, suddenly — without knowing why — spoke of Don Quixote…

Lucian pressed him, and Ignatius once again stared at it for a long time without saying a word. Nothing more came from his mouth, and the deep imbalance he had felt persisted without him being able to explain it. Only one word came to his mind and lips… Don Quixote… which Mr. Lucian kept relentlessly turning into Don Carrot…

And then… very gradually, without Ignatius noticing it, without needing to move in the slightest, he began to enter the image… not intellectually, as one might imagine, but physically, as though an invisible door had opened onto a present that was also his past… all of it in an instant, and without difficulty understanding it. Everything was there, delightfully chaotic! The roots, the raft, the waves, the volcanic islands, the masts more or less firmly tied, ready for new constructions… the sails torn from the curtains of the circus so often dismantled… reassembled… and, above all, the open-sea air filling his lungs and making him tremble with the desire to depart.

In this trembling, a word burst from his mouth at the same time as it sprang from the shadows: Hot Blood! The long-forgotten companion calling him joyfully by name:

– Don Carrot! I was terribly worried… I thought you dead! Where have you been?

That was enough for Ignatius to recall the long chain of causes and effects that had brought him to Mr. Lucian’s office. A shadow crossed his brow, clouding his thoughts for a moment before clarifying them…

– Go and understand… if the sky will be covered in one part of the image, elsewhere it will be bright after the lifting of the morning mists formed by doubts about Mr. Lucian’s intentions and actions.

Doubts which too had crossed the invisible door of Ignatius’ mind… here called Don Carrot…

– If it is true that these images conceal some truth, I still do not know… I cannot be sure whether these images come from him or from me… Could it be that all this is manipulation and that I am nothing but a pitiful puppet?

Suddenly, from beyond the image, Lucian’s voice resounded. Ignatius startled, while Lucian’s voice — barely a whisper — gently attempted to resume the interrupted dialogue.

– Do you remember what brought you here?

Ignatius was confused. He felt lost and wondered whether this “here” meant the office or the image he believed he had re-entered…

Which, in Lucian’s eyes, was “a good sign”…

– If, for him, the question arises, it means he is aware that two spaces are contending for the persistence of his thoughts…