Philippe Ramette's Éloge du pas de côté is right in the centre of a restaurant area, his besuited man in almost archaic tie with his eyes on the horizon. But the vital thing is that he has one foot on a base, the other in nothingness, the void. How much do we believe him, or in him? Is he really human? In his impeccable dress he seems a part of the world, or maybe a very old world that vanished before his eyes? Maybe just an old fart, or a memory of how we used to look but have moved on sartorially, but not mentally? We may have casualised the way we look, but not the way we think?
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