As the sun slowly sets, the masses in the crowd fidget in their mile-long queues, eager to enter the pavilion for the season’s spectacle. It is the winter festival in the great cultural centres of the world, and the celebrations of the past summer are a distant memory for most. Those in attendance keenly pay their dues, and shuffle into the building, clutching their colour-coded tickets in anticipation of the coming event.

The wads of bills pile up in the tills. Runners sprint to and fro, shuttling sacks of cash. Some of the millions will be tithed to fill the coffers of the designers and organizers, while the rest will become a part of the evening’s masterpiece. A number of particularly enthusiastic attendants have brought exotic foreign currencies this time, an expression welcomed by the event artists, for it meant new papers and inks to experiment with. The rates for this season’s donation are dear, but it would be worth it.

The attendees filter into their tiers. In the ‘white’ section at the rear, it is nearly impossible to see the art past the throng of humanity, but those at the front have paid their way – it is rumoured that this season’s wealthiest donor had provided an armoured truck filled to the bulkheads with vintage $2 bills to secure his gold ticket. As the last of the audience members settle into their spots, a hush falls across the crowd. The designers have entered the field.

Driving specially-designed front-end loaders, the designers dart across the floor, manipulating the mounded piles of brightly coloured bills into elaborate patterns. They are masters of the shovel, their deftness and precision uncanny, and the onlookers swoon as the stunning images begin to take shape.

Finally, all is prepared. The lights are extinguished, and the pavilion is cast into pitch darkness. The tension in the air is palpable.

And then, all at once, the scene explodes into colour. Jets of flame shoot from the floor, consuming the money and tracing brilliant patterns across the field. As the different inks and chemicals volatilize and combust, the orange of the pyre is tinged with green, red, blue, yellow. A pedestal rises from the centre of the deck, and on it dance the most beautiful of young men and women, stunning ghosts in the haze, their sculpted figures outlined by the flickering inferno beneath them. Electronic beats thunder through the loudspeakers, charging the pseudo-coitus of the models with urgency.

A pyre dancer is a glamorous job, but a fleeting one – the priceless chemical smoke soon takes its toll on their beauty and their health. Ultimately, it is of little consequence, however, for there are always ready young replacements, willing to sacrifice their livelihoods for the intoxicating adulation of the crowd.

Bass punctuates the ignition of new trails of monetary fuel, and the flashes of paparazzi cameras bathe the stage in new light. Media scribes jot notes furiously, dissecting every facet of the display, from the aesthetic quality of the arrangements, to the fitness of the models, to an inventory of the night’s important attendees. In the coming weeks the newspapers would be flooded with editorials, trends, and speculation on how the designers might further raise the bar in the next season’s festival.

The revelers bask in the breathtaking splendour of the art they are witnessing, and they take heart in knowing that their hard-earned bills helped to fuel something beautiful, even if only in a small way. Even those in the cheapest seats will make certain to keep their coloured ticket stubs, proudly pinning them to their shirts to display until the next event.

Those with gold tickets will look down on those with white; some with condescension, but most with pity – “at least they are trying,” they will say.

For all of them, they are part of something special, and they know it.