Throughout my childhood and my youth, the mannequins had a face. Eyes, eyelashes, lip eyebrows, nose. I remember that when I came from the school, I stopped in front of the showcase of a clothing store and watched one of these figures in the form of a woman who enjoyed me, it seemed to me, of a minimum existence, because when I stopped looking at it a few seconds changed slightly expression. I never managed to surprise her at the moment of traffic, although I tried throughout the school year. I ignore when the novelty of the mannequins began with a erased face (perhaps 20 or 30 years ago), but the truth is that they no longer surprise us. Some even take away their heads without children pointing them out as a monstrosity. I suppose that a mercantile philosophy beaten behind this step towards abstraction. Perhaps the loss of the countenance forces us to direct our gaze to the clothes, I do not know. It caught my attention, when tripping with this photo in the newspaper, the contrast between the lack of life of the figures that are on the other side of the showcase and the one that can be seen among the real people who turn their backs. I mean that I noticed them more: in their positions, in their clothing, even in their footwear. For a moment, I thought that these people were the true mannequins, while the others were souls disguised as lifeless dolls. A commercial trick, in short, of the windowist: the interior is externalized while the exterior is internalized. It would have been fine, but sellers are not so ready. Or yes?
