Absolute erotica: a world made entirely of red. Doubled, duplicated, doppelegänger’d. I’d make a manifesto for crimson but Rothko already did that, and David Lynch made a worthy successor to it. When I learned that Silencio exists in both New York and Paris, and I realized I’d be visiting the City of Light, I knew — I have to see the scarlet spot. There is blood and frenzy and rage and the rising sun. When you’re seeing red you know you’re alive.
It’s been too long! Too long since I’ve gone back out into an adventure in the night, too long since I’d dwelled within my twelfth house, too long since I’ve spoken to you from behind the satin curtains of the unconscious. I’ve been lost without it. I’ve been lost without you: my invisible audience, the devil and the angel on my shoulders and the audience cheering all of us on. Have you been living through me as I think you do? Pining? Envying? Yearning?
Like a spell, the duality. Perfect for a wandering Gemini. Ghosts I will find there, I know. The moon is hanging right over my head and the streets are empty. I heard it's violet here. I’ve accidentally arrived at the same time as the Olympics and the venue is coincidentally close to the Team USA House. Time is looser here. I have been stripped to the bone and survived. Nothing is as it seems and yet it really is that simple. If you're looking for me where I have been, you won't ever find me again. You can call me what you want. I won't answer.
Lynch’s own Silencio, succeeding in the famous wake of the notorious Parisian location with the same name. My girls and I were fervent fans of Lynch and clubbing so, of course, we’ve been loyal patrons of the New York dungeon — and so, of course, I had to discover the original, see its sweets for myself. But you already knew that. If you’re at all familiar with the experience or even the fantasy of a nightclub, you can see the appeal of a Lynchian twist to it: emphasizing the mysterious and the surreal and the inexplicable and the romance and of course the red.
In Paris, Silencio has two main sections: one tiny and packed and techno, one expansive and red and versatile. Before them, there is a descent, as with all good clubs. It seems like you’re entering a church except there are bouncers outside, and of course people standing outside chainsmoking, because duh, you’re in Paris. Once you get past the door, you are ushered into what seems like an entrance into a basement with the railing lined by white neon light strips. You’ll turn three corners, each leading to a descent steeper than the last, and somewhere along the way it’ll feel like you’re entering your own subconscious shadows. You’ll start to hear the music pulsating. You’ll clench your fingers into fists and wonder what awaits you. As we wonder all the time of the contents of the murky future: this place I’m arbitrarily walking into, is the love of my life awaiting me? Am I going to drink too much and forget all this?
Stand on the bench or the couch or the mound of clay She dropped down for us. “Esta lloviendo”, her mother corrected me while her father snickered. But I know what I said and what to say when I saw the rain falling over the rolling sand hills of the beach: “Esta llorando,” because when it rains it means God is crying, and the salt is painting the sky a new color, and are you looking at the same canvas as me? Do you not see this splendor even in the dark, even blinded? Can’t you feel the sublime in your veins? Or is it all in vain? Doesn’t it all take your breath away? The world is a marble of colors we don’t have strong enough optic nerves to fully see.
I came into the cavern beneath the Parisian ground and I was stunned like so. It’s huge, way bigger than the New York location, which is more of a box than actual The Box. Multiple rooms, multiple vibes, multiple DJs, multiple bars. Shadow, of course, in abundance, and lots of mirrors everywhere, reflecting and confusing you like a funhouse, but also amplifying the scale of the minimal architecture: sharp angles, obscured corners, if you’re too drunk I’m sure it’s difficult to discern the ground from the ceiling even.
After procuring my first mezcal negroni of the night I went to the smallest cavern with a techno DJ, as the main floor was still relatively unoccupied. It was mostly men here, thus far, and I could tell they were all techno enthusiasts. If you’re at all familiar with the type you know why I could tell. Sleeveless tees, random tattoos littering the pale arms, chain link bracelets and necklaces, ripped black jeans, bleached and buzzed hair, necks thick from bobbing along to the heavy bass so often. And so you can imagine why I immediately felt so out of place. There is no dearth of melanin in Paris but places like this sure feel otherwise. No one looked at me like I had a second head… if anything, that’s the problem, no one seemed to bother looking at me at all. One man bumped roughly into me when passing like I was invisible. One man stepped on my foot and didn’t even bother with a whispered Excusez-moi. I finally left when a couple trying very hard to fuse their lips together spilled a drink on my leg because their hands were otherwise occupied.
Imagine my next surprise: There’s a movie theater here! I didn’t know it then but they were playing Showgirls. How often a movie flops only to be rediscovered as a cult classic years later. What does this mean for our art? Does one need critical acclaim to be known and appreciated? I wondered this even before I knew the title because I figured it was the kind of thing Lynch would want playing here. And I had to resort to thinking because everyone around me were loudly and proudly making out or driving their fingers into each others’ cavities. Already I had been nursing a feeling of loneliness in Paris, being unable to speak much French and knowing no one else in the city at all, but this exacerbated it to an unbearable level. I began to wish there was a bar here to quickly procure another mezcal negroni. I wished my girls were here to explore with me. More than anything I think I wished I could disappear, or at least go invisible, so when others passed me by energetically or physically I wouldn’t have to worry if there was something wrong with me to summon such lacking. I’m not used to lacking, yearning with nothing to do with all the love in me. But that is the point of traveling across the world, I told myself, you’re supposed to get uncomfortable and maybe a little sad, that’s when the growth happens. And it’s time to go back into the dungeon, because how could one be sad or lonely in the middle of a packed dancefloor?
I soon found out...
This is an excerpt from the full Night Report. If you're interested in seeing how Silencio Paris differs from the New York location, you can find the full article on Anderson's blog METROPOLIA, exclusively for paid subscribers.
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