As a kid, a teen, it was more than often that she heard her mother telling her, shouting at her :"its enoug !  I don’t want to see you anymore ! desappear in your room ! qwick ! "

As an adult she is to be seen from bed-rooms to bed-rooms .

As a camera-man he is discretly following this camerist , both insatiable .

A bed-room, the ideal huis-clos for intimacy ?  Not really since as entering the room you are preceded by the wall paper of cultural cults .

Qu'en est-il de ce téatre de l'intime ? (In English intime would be in time , just in time, which would very well describe the ordinary state of urge that manages our daily life .)

We all have a small musette (lunchbag) slightly pulling our shoulder down , where we pile up a jumble of emotions, desires, impulses of all kinds that we hope to examine and classify one day … As if one had really time to get acquainted with oneself …

It needs courage and inspiration , imagination .

Disponibility and time .

Does an artist dispose of these rare ingredients ?

The artist, stamped  with the numerous visas of passing fancies, as he is essentially inhabited by the explorations of his ego and libido, threes echo-rooms of his foreignity with whom he is trying to get familiar …

To explore his inner-landscape .

Life and Art . Two big words whose definitions have to be reinvented evry day .

A room, a TV, a window with a view, she on the nude walking around on her domestic tasks, him present trough the trace of his gaze on the whole , prolog to his relation with the state of things .

An invitation to wandering .

On the piste .

Vive le bal musette !  (to get acquainted with the Muses of course )                               ©  Didier BAY 1996