La vie qui vous échappe à certains moment. Vous essayer de la rattraper par tous les bouts possible, mais vous ne parvenez qu’à saisir des lambeaux de lumières. Le reste n’est qu’ombres, pénombre, invisibilité, un noir qui se fait palpable, tenace et profond. Pourtant, du noir jaillit la lumière. Des rayons, des faisceaux, des jets de blancheur, de couleur, de vie. Ephémères, ils passent mais laissent une trace de leur passage dans ce noir, qui l’espace d’un instant, s’illumine. Une certaine violence contrebalancée par la douceur des pêches et de la jeunesse. Pourtant, jamais très loin, l’effritement, l’étrange, le dérangeant. Une perte de repères, un basculement, comme si l’on se tenait au bord du précipice. Cette ligne de bras, aux couleurs si suaves, aux traits lumineux, est sur le point de se faire engloutir par cette obscurité qui l’entoure. Ces veines qui ressortent, noueuses, si proches de celles d’un baobab. L’immobilité de ce corps coupé, cette fixité. Respire-t-il encore ? La sensualité de ce ruban noir, ce noeud de velours, qui fleurit au contact sensuel de ces gouttes de mer éparpillées sur ce ventre doré. Un corps qui ne connait plus ni début ni fin, qui nous agresse par la forme anguleuse de son épaule. Le bout de ce sein camouflé sous les cheveux. Une nuance de vert trop crue, irréaliste. Une flaque de sang diluée. La blancheur de cette roche recouverte de branches piquantes. Une cavité pour origine du monde. Sauvées par ces bras qui s’embrassent et s’enlacent. Ce choux éclairé par des néons bleus. Comme les lignes de la main, peut-on lire l’avenir dans sa chair ? À genoux dans la pénombre. Elle sert le drap de douche. Si fort.
Life eludes you at times. You try to catch it in every possible way, but you only manage to grasp shreds of light. The rest is shadow, penumbra, invisibility, a darkness that is palpable, tenacious and deep. And yet, out of the darkness springs light. Rays, beams, jets of whiteness, color, life. Ephemeral, they pass but leave a trace of their passage in this blackness, which for a moment is illuminated.
A certain violence counterbalanced by the sweetness of peaches and youth. Yet never far away, the crumbling, the strange, the disturbing. A loss of bearings, a tipping over, as if we're standing on the edge of a precipice. This line of arms, with its soft colors and luminous features, is about to be swallowed up by the darkness that surrounds it. Those gnarled, baobab-like veins. The immobility of this severed body, this fixity. Is he still breathing? The sensuality of this black ribbon, this velvet bow, blossoming with the sensual contact of these sea drops scattered over this golden belly. A body that knows neither beginning nor end, that assaults us with the angular shape of its shoulder. The tip of her breast hidden under her hair. A shade of green too raw, unrealistic. A diluted pool of blood. The whiteness of a rock covered with prickly branches. A cavity as the origin of the world. Saved by these embracing arms. This cabbage lit by blue neon. Like the lines of a hand, can we read the future in our flesh? Kneeling in the half-light. She holds the shower sheet. So hard.
A certain violence counterbalanced by the sweetness of peaches and youth. Yet never far away, the crumbling, the strange, the disturbing. A loss of bearings, a tipping over, as if we're standing on the edge of a precipice. This line of arms, with its soft colors and luminous features, is about to be swallowed up by the darkness that surrounds it. Those gnarled, baobab-like veins. The immobility of this severed body, this fixity. Is he still breathing? The sensuality of this black ribbon, this velvet bow, blossoming with the sensual contact of these sea drops scattered over this golden belly. A body that knows neither beginning nor end, that assaults us with the angular shape of its shoulder. The tip of her breast hidden under her hair. A shade of green too raw, unrealistic. A diluted pool of blood. The whiteness of a rock covered with prickly branches. A cavity as the origin of the world. Saved by these embracing arms. This cabbage lit by blue neon. Like the lines of a hand, can we read the future in our flesh? Kneeling in the half-light. She holds the shower sheet. So hard.
