They welcome us into their greenhouse. A carpet of plastic grass serves as their playground. A hundred spectators push in on each other in small clumps. Didier André and Jean-Paul Lefeuvre are the official gardners for the day. They have already planted two comical strips of flowers, red carnations and miniature sun flowers that stare each other down across the small stage.

One of the two dozes in his hammock. The other, firm limbs clad in nothing but a pair of black cotton boxer shorts, rattles heaven and earth to try to shake his sidekick from the torpor. Here he is now, waltzing  with his wheelbarrow while a cassette-player delivers all the sweetest oldies. Honey in the sweat.

It’s all there : in the fairground muscle and the light waves of melancholy. The Greenhouse is an intimate circus. In barely thirty minutes, the acrobats provide delicate thrills that are worth far more than the flashiest, sequined circus fantasia can provide.

Twenty five years ago, these two were part of Cirque O, a circus show in the shape of a fist, that chased away the animals from the ring and injected venom into the body of it’s acrobats, both victim and persecutor. It was a cruel and brave circus. A history of the fools that brought us together.

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Today, the pair prefer miniature coups. Contained folly. We see an athlete-gentleman, hands stuck to the ground, feet pointed toward heaven, stretching his legs and making a mooing sound. It’s both bestial and child-like. The whole soul of circus in one small sound.