cover image courtesy of Hello Lille

I’m in Lille, France, and I’m standing inside a bear. The bear’s wicker frame is woven like a basket, and the not inconsiderable weight of the structure rests on wooden slats that lay across my shoulders. A pulley rope allows me to open the bear’s mouth as if it were growling—a little ‘extra’ added by its maker, Dorian Demarcq.

Unlike puppets, traditional giants from Flanders don’t have moving parts. Could I walk for miles and stand for hours at a time wearing this wicker-and-papier-mâché bear? Probably, but this is one of the smallest and lightest giants out there. The tallest are some 9 meters (30 feet) high and require a team of seven palanquin bearers; the dragons, which are the largest, can weigh up to 350 kilograms (772 pounds!).

I make a lot of local historical figures and characters to represent the region’s past—miners and such-like,” says Demarcq. “But I prefer building imaginary or mythical giants; it allows me to be more creative.”

Demarcq’s studio is a 3D patchwork of different giants in various stages of construction. Warty and menacing-looking old women leer down at me from the eaves like archetypal Disney villains, except these figures, known as croquemitaines (bogeymen), represent fears: “Hysteria” stands next to “Covid-19.” Further along is an effigy of Belgian fiction author Amélie Nothomb, her pale, papier-mâché face made with pages of her own books. There’s a partially finished clay bear’s head, the prototype for a giant like the one I’ve just tried on, and a bare-breasted woman covered in sheet music—commissioned by a local music school—wearing a crown made from treble clefs and crotchets. Townships also commission their own giants, helped by cultural budgets that are set aside to preserve traditional crafts and heritage.

The history of giants in northeast France and Belgium, a region collectively known as Flanders, can be tangibly traced to the Middle Ages. Effigies representing dragons, or mythical or Biblical heroes, appeared in religious processions from the end of the 14th century. But their prevalence declined over time, particularly after the French Revolution and during the two World Wars, both of which were hard-fought on Flanders’ soil. The giants’ revival began in the late 1970s, with the creation of the organization La Ronde des Géants in 1977. In 2008, they were inscribed in UNESCO’S Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity list. Now they take to the streets for carnival season, history fairs, village fêtes, and everything in between, and they’re on permanent display in city halls around the region, including in Lille and Arras.

“I make a lot of local historical figures and characters to represent the region’s past—miners and such-like,” says Demarcq. “But I prefer building imaginary or mythical giants; it allows me to be more creative.”

Giant-making has formed Demarcq’s entire adult career. He started doing it full-time straight out of university, after a chance encounter with giant-maker Stéphane Deleurence, and he’s been making them ever since. By repairing 200-year-old giants from Cassel, Belgium, Demarcq learned to recreate centuries-old techniques. For 26 years, he’s been shaping wicker frames (many are built on wheels, to make the giants easier to move), and creating models from clay. Next, he covers them in multiple layers of papier mâché, cuts them in two, sticks them back together, and paints them. Demarcq also adds wire mesh to the inside of the papier mâché—not quite a 200-year-old technique, but it makes his giants sturdier. A thick coat of varnish at the end helps to protect his creations from the elements, since carnival season coincides with rainy season (from January through April in northeastern France, and February to March in Belgium). For their clothing and accessories, the giants have their own personal stylist: Nicole Cugny, a colleague of Demarcq’s, makes all of their outfits.

“Wicker, rattan, wood, paper, clay—the materials haven’t changed,” says Demarcq, who grew up near Phalempin, just south of Lille. “But the giants are having a moment; I don’t remember seeing many as a child.”

In the corner is a giant that looks like an upright, slightly cross-eyed anteater, wearing a thick cloak of mud-colored horsehair.

“That’s the monster that lives in the Deûle [Lille’s river],” explains Demarcq. “I made it in 2004, when Lille was one of the European Capitals of Culture. It used to be filthy, but it’s had a massive clean-up. This monster now educates schoolchildren about water pollution.”