PROTAGONISM
S02E20. Every character is the protagonist of their own story
PREVIOUSLY — Eight weeks away from her performance, BBH is left with a fragmented script, while stage props multiply and the group’s emotional dynamics grow increasingly invasive. Meanwhile, reflection on repetition — as an aesthetic gesture, a working method, a survival strategy — asserts itself as the project’s key. Amid accumulating images, stickers, and theories, BBH postpones both the writing of HAPPY DREAM and the real crux of her situation: creating a character. As Season Two of HAPPIDREAMING opens, alongside the second act of Better Than Luck, the question is no longer who one is, but how one acts — and whether, once the method is defined, the character might finally happen.
In recent years, Witch has redeemed her high-school self — disdainful, immobile, closed off, oversized jumpers and a refusal to fly — by turning into her opposite: an hyper-connected leader with a PA and a stylist. Perhaps thanks to Vampire, who, by marrying Witch, proved himself capable of overturning expectations: the womanising gambler pledged fidelity; the alpha teenager fell in love with the girl with braces.
In recent years, Great Mother — the fashion-forward devotee of career, private-sale clearances, and a language dense with proper nouns and niche references — found herself paired with a man uninterested in her trinkets and now pushes a Bugaboo stroller while instructing hourly-paid twenty-somethings on Maria Montessori’s concept of child autonomy. That man, Werewolf, no, does not wake at dawn to admire the sun rising over his vineyard, nor did he abandon everything for music and a nocturnal life, and no, he did not end up starting a family with his childhood friend (me). He had children with a foreigner, rides a scooter instead of a horse, and the physical distance from his family compensates for his conflicted, melancholic relationship with concrete and steel.
CLEAR ENOUGH? — The structural idea of this episode is simple: a silent demonstration of Better Than Luck’s thesis that every character is the protagonist of their own story.
In recent years, Devil has achieved the impossible: moving from his twenties to his thirties without changing. Same hyper-critical mood. Same cutting eye. Same talent for choosing serif or sans-serif. Same loyalty to colour bibles and GF Smith paper stocks. Same fixation on “collabs” (Noma Bar x Monocle, Kenya Hara x Muji), same sensitivity to out-of-print publications (photographs of faeces by Oliviero Toscani) or limited editions (pff). New city, new girlfriend (Jinn the Genie), same method: cohabitation immediately.
And Jinn the Genie? She appeared just like that — poof! — from a little blue cloud, freshly freed from her old lamp (a long relationship whose unspeakable details we know thanks to Witch’s tireless demiurgic labour, as Undisputed Queen of Other People’s Business). Nothing was handed to her, nothing gifted — and yes, Witch helped her open the bar she dreamed of opening — but who works harder than she does? Devil can confirm it. All of us can.
AND ONE MORE THING — Note how the structure itself repeats. By now it’s easy to imagine BBH rolling out the biographies of all the others. You could place a bet on Monster.
In recent years — and by years I mean decades — Monster has not really inhabited our planet. Not mine, at least. An NPC in my game, he’d say — gamer jargon and all. Until Witch cast him in her script Witch the Neo-Gallerist, in the role of Raw Stone to Be Transformed “into the new Kaws,” complete with heiress girlfriend (Nymph) to neutralise any lingering enfant-terrible aura.
And here he is now: new house, new studio, wavering between impostor syndrome and a new solo show, between a real woman and a potential one.
In recent years, Nymph — oh, boooring— that perpetually indignant gaze at a reality beneath her standards: she has fulfilled every single expectation except bringing home the artist-boyfriend, likely the most adventurous and counter-intuitive incursion for a collector’s daughter.
WELL — That last move was a bit lazy, wasn’t it?
In recent years, Cerberus has sharpened his pen. Of course, he has refined everything he always had (taste, eye, acuity, tailored wardrobe, sensitivity, intuition), but his critical sense, translated into short, incisive paragraphs, now seems capable of distilling elitist thoughts and sublime sensations into concepts with collective reach. You should see how beautifully his articles pair with the speckled tulip arrangements adorning his desk.
A shame he insists on smoking those damn, extremely stylish, coloured Nat Shermans.
Speaking of colour, there’s Doll, who has become, well, Doll: a globetrotter with a discreet feed (IYKYK), an outfit for every occasion (Ascot, Wimbledon, Burning Man). And according to the projections of the past few weeks, Doll has found her niche. Art? No. Fashion? No. Design? No. Collectible high jewellery — irreverent in spirit, deliberate in form, a colour palette broader than a rainbow, and proper names whose meaning, or double meaning, you only get if you get it.
In recent years, the ugly duckling became a swan. The girl no one noticed became the author of improbable critical and popular success. A name both anti-social publishers and fashion-week regulars love to drop. I’m talking about Empress, obviously. In recent years, Empress turned storytelling into a business and narrative into redemption. To this day, the prototype of her still-unpublished writing-and-rewriting manual (because publishing it would be a vulgar means of profit) inspires these lines. Her story inspires mine. Perhaps I should call her? Perhaps I should update her, show her these laborious pages?
MAYBE. — And maybe, by remaining strategically absent from the episode — avoiding even micro-actions so as not to betray the essayistic structure — what BBH is really trying to do is admit she is not alone, but immersed in a complex narrative ecosystem.
In recent years, I… oh, but now my eyes are burning and I need sleep.
I’m writing from the floor (laptop on my knees, that neck-down posture strongly discouraged) of Devil’s studio, who’s lending me a room for my collage canvases, my Stage Props (how I love that term).
Hundreds of stickers, forming abstract zones.
And here we are: hundreds of words, and not one about me.
What do you think — am I recovering from my protagonism?
And you — who are you, in your own story?
It would be nice, if you ever felt like letting me know.
See you next week, HAPPIDREAMERS,
— BBH
