Pink icing and multicolor sprinkles, glitter nail varnish, acrylic clothes and the flashing lights of commerce, this is my modernity. Just after Christmas now and the shopping streets, department stores and big malls are wilting the season's décor. Santa comes out as a fake, belonging to the mythology of consumerism. If there was a historical Santa, he perhaps lived in the shadows. The idea of him was exponentially inflated. In an industrial culture, shopping is an end in itself. Every item comes hundred-fold. A thousand shopping malls have given Santa a thousand faces. Illuminated window decorations of a thousand little places have orchestrated a fantasy land rich with reindeers, snow on slopes, furry boots, scrumptious hampers, glittering bells, and candy cornucopias. So many little objects, all from Santa-land: gingerbread hearts, snowflake jumpers, patent leather Mary-Janes. A world of miniatures dangles from plastic pines, when every product imaginable comes wrapped in red and gold. In my mind, a fairy tale fantasy with no story line rises from the myriad little symbols that meet the eye. It lurks behind commercials and in the voices of radio presenters, and seeps into the bloodstream by way of Christmas dishes, cakes and spicy coffees. It bewitches all of early winter, wreathig twinkling decorations on everything.
This is my modernity. If there were no shopping malls, there would be no Santa. There would be no gift wrapping industry, no e-voucher platforms, and no Christmas specials. The soul would unstick itself from this mould that's been laid out for souls to fall into. Like a heavy trainer sole on sticky Tarmac in summer, it would leave a depressed trace in the ground, and rise from a cultured sclerosis.