Histoire de Serge Gainsbourg

Half-smoked Gitanes stick out of the glass ashtray like limbs trying to escape quicksand. The bottle of Château Pétrus is drained. Three Snickers bars idle in a translucent refrigerator—the half-eaten one has tooth marks that resemble a 33-year-old petroglyph. An eerie anatomical model, looking somewhere between Vesalius and a horror film, glowers from the gloomy shadows. On a nearby shelf, a lifeless tarantula is suspended in glass. In the kitchen, the spices and sauces, cans of tomato juice and cocktail mixers are embalmed in pristine order, patiently waiting for Serge Gainsbourg to return home for a final nightcap.