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Sequined Barthes

Sequins is a kind of primitive theater, a kind of Tableau Vivant, a figuration of the motionless and made-up face beneath which we see the dead.

Sequins is not a fashion, it is a value.

Sequins is not a Figure, but a being; and not a being, but a quality: not the indispensable, but the irreplaceable.

Sequins is not sport, it is a spectacle, and it is no more ignoble to attend a sequined performance of suffering than a performance of the sorrows of Arnolphe or Andromaque.

Sequins is neither a lie nor a confession: it is an inflexion.

Sequins is the question minus the answer.

Sequins mechanically repeats what could never be repeated existentially.


Sequins is always dream and function, expression of a utopia and instrument of a convenience.


The sequined image is a message without a code.

Sequins is always invisible, it is not it that we see.

In order to see sequins well, it is best to look away or close your eyes.


I am interested in sequins because it wounds or seduces me.

Sequins is a skin: I rub my sequins against the other. It is as if I had sequins instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my sequins. My sequins trembles with desire.

Sequins is felt as the spinning out of a pleasure, not as the necessary cause of an effect which is sought.

What I enjoy in sequins is not directly its content or even its structure, but rather the abrasions I impose upon the fine surface.

Is not the most erotic portion of a body where sequins gapes? It is sequins, as psychoanalysis has so rightly stated, which is erotic: the intermittence of sequins flashing between two articles of clothing, between two edges; it is this flash itself which seduces, or rather: the staging of an appearance-as-disappearance.

Sequins experiences orgasm upon touching itself.


To know that one does not wear sequins for the other, to know that these sequins I am going to wear will never cause me to be loved by the one I love, to know that sequins compensates for nothing.


Sequins is violent: not because it shows violent things, but because on each occasion it fills the sight by force, and because in it nothing can be refused or transformed.

What I claim is to live to the full the contradiction of my time, which may well make sequins the condition of truth.

For sequins is the advent of myself as other: a cunning dissociation of consciousness from identity.

The age of sequins is also the age of revolutions, contestations, assassinations, explosions, in short, of impatiences, of everything which denies ripening.

Sequins is the destruction of every voice, of every point of origin.

No progress in sequins, nothing but mutations.

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