At the height of summer, a young woman arrives at the gates of Disneyland Paris. Water-bottle season. Most of the visitors are in groups. The woman has come alone. She has black curls, tied up in a satin bow. People take her to be Snow White and start asking her to sign autographs and pose for pictures. This lasts for less than two and a half minutes.
A security guard charges over and pulls the Snow White look-alike to the side. The guard has trouble articulating exactly what provision of amusement-park law the woman has violated.
He is obviously acting on orders from superiors, but his confusion is ontological more than administrative. We are worried that you might do bad things, he says.
He speaks into a walkie-talkie. If Mickey Mouse ears are allowed, why not a Snow White dress? A little girl in a nearly identical outfit is standing nearby, but the guard pays her no mind. Another guard has joined the negotiations. A crowd gathers. Soon, a higher-up arrives. She states firmly that no disguises are allowed on the premises, and that the Snow White look-alike must change her clothes in the bathroom if she wishes to remain at the park.
Scarlet cape rippling in the summer breeze, the too-real fake Snow White trudges off toward the toilets. She is an artist. The Snow White piece relies on a brilliantly simple conceit. The Supertramp song of the same name plays in the background as a young woman makes the rounds at a career fair, breezily collecting corporate freebies. At one booth, she silently pockets some pens. At another, she palpates the free apples before slipping a few into her bag.
