Observe this monolith, this silent sentinel, rising unbidden from the asphalt. A crude, painted effigy of a man, yet undeniably, profoundly, a Fez wearer. One senses a struggle here, a defiance against the ephemeral nature of all things, even in this plastic rendering. His eyes, fixed, perhaps upon the distant horizon, or perhaps upon the very abyss of human absurdity, hint at a knowledge too ancient to be contained within painted fiberglass.

This is El Turista, the iconic advertising figure of the Gran Morrison department store. A peculiar choice, perhaps, for a purveyor of mundane goods, but then, what is advertising if not a desperate attempt to imbuing the inanimate with a soul, to ignite a flicker of longing where none existed before? He stands approximately 20 feet tall, a colossal figure that has overseen countless transactions, witnessed the endless comings and goings of the consumer. His perpetually shiny, almost lacquered, maroon trousers and the crisp white shirt with black bow tie speak of a formality, a quiet dignity, utterly at odds with the transient banality of a parking lot.

The fezzes themselves, those truncated cones of felt, are a symbol. Here, on his head, it bears the number '100', the significance of which is lost to the casual observer, yet it whispers of anniversaries, of legacies, of institutions enduring against the relentless erosion of time. And the faint, almost imperceptible braid of hair, a strange, dark appendage, falling from beneath the brim. A detail, seemingly insignificant, yet it lends a certain disquieting humanity to this otherwise static form.

El Turista, a silent monument to commerce, to the fleeting desires of humanity, stands as a solitary figure. He is not merely an advertisement; he is a testament to the strange, often unsettling, ways in which man attempts to mark his territory, to assert his presence, however transient, upon the indifferent landscape. He is a silent scream against the void, dressed impeccably for the occasion.