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VEGETATIVE
As we slow our rhythm for each other
we find our state altered
Models are scarce, I use my own body
As I reach out toward an extranged world
I show myself fully
As a flower would bloom in spring
I speak of the state of the neutral, but also the lack of contact
The social distancing of our bodies and the taking over of nature
Corresponding video on video page.
France, 2020, Alpha 7sII
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Flowers in winter
The light grows from the velvet.
The cold bound us
Home
So we sat, watching the day move across the walls.
The fire slowly burning up the prism.
As the plants search for the light.
Two painters striped in the palette
Of the living room.
Parents.
France, 2017, Nikon Fm2
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France, 2017, Nikon Fm2
Understanding
It was mostly about the hair.
Burning up silent afternoons in those stone walls.
The images are of shared loneliness
Morning coffee in that cup, the one with the perfect rim
The place you sit, watching the birds you feed
The stacks of things, crackling, balanced.
The warmth of the dressing gown.
That look when you get lost. In. Thought.
Mother.
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France, 2017, Nikon Fm2
Lost in the Light
Desperate to feed
following the day
turn around the rooms
tapestry of squares
Alone
Child.
France, 2017, Nikon F80
Mostly Silence
Write down the kilometres
To the point furthest to reach the waves.
Here our eyes are the colour of the water
And yours, I have always known they were mine.
Father.
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The Feast
Knowing the ground like skin. Feeling the cold like blood.
The mist like the ash in our hearth
One feeding the other
but mostly one devouring us
The (home)Land.
France, 2017, Nikon Fm2
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Perspectives on solitude
If solitude were a sound, it would be that crackling of the one bumblebee every evening in that flower.
The one near the garden table, that catches the light around nine.
If solitude were to be swallowed, it would be green and in a bowl. A few sips would suffice.
There would be bursts of yellow, they too catching the rays.
But mostly, It would be a view. A view that persists. A view from above, head hanging. A view from underneath, neck snapped back, in thought.
If solitude were an angle, it would be sharp and blurred in with each day resembling the other.