4 p.m. in Berlin. It is the end of October and the winter is coming already: the sun is almost setting. I meet the twilight also behind the door I
Nous sommes dans la nuit de dimanche à lundi, je suis seule dans la galerie Éric Mouchet et j’ai comme unique compagnie les œuvres de Gwendoline Perrigueux. Dans la galerie, cette nuit, je ne veux qu’écrire.
My skin shreds the pocket of my jeans, my fingers slip into its breast and collect a cold body that I guess plural. Its rough walls caress my skin, which
If there are things that can be shared a priori without difficulty, the memory is undoubtedly the most obvious. It can be broken up as desired, free of charge and
The exhibition Debout ! was a cry that escaped all summer from the Convent of the Jacobins of Rennes. Sometimes plaintive, sometimes furious, sometimes even injunctive, this cry has not
We probably know all the highways in France: tolls, triangle sandwiches and other traffic jams are all mythologies that drive each of our holidays, each of our trips to and
For a long time I considered Hugo Servanin as a Frankenstein doctor. Indeed, his tendency to postpone our appointments to “embalm his bodies” reinforced my idea that this was an
A sofa in upholstered fabric, a bookcase in solid oak, in short a Roche Bobois furniture that participates in the imitation of a collector’s interior through which it was
