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