Frankie Foxstone is a powerhouse of a woman with a sharp business dress cinched at the waist and ridiculously overset at the shoulders and hips. The cliché hyperbole of the female form is set with a hard hat and a belted speaker just at her crotch.
We don hi-vis vests ourselves and set off into the East End. At every stop, Foxstone finds higher ground – a constant reminder of her status. Her conversation topics come naturally to her – the development getaway at Cannes (“You look like you’ve been, Andrew”), her father’s booming redevelopment on the adjacent block and the countless business partners she’s gained around the world.
What begins as a look at the space around us quickly becomes an internal separation. Atop a small staircase, Foxstone orders us to line up along the footpath in order of value of assets. We’re asked to keep this line as we move further down and then split into property owners and non-property owners. This is where it gets interesting.
Without clearly or directly asking for anyone’s worth, Foxstone casts such a rift between the two groups of people that we can’t help but see each other differently.
These physical divisions Foxstone has created echo the social divisions between us which were previously unnoted. We study each other through lenses Foxstone has given us, all with an air of looking to help us into the lucrative market.
Foxstone shifts the focus onto ourselves and highlights the insane nature of the property game with her bright and vibrant character and forces such a horrifically real question of social status and value.