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Raw is the color of pepper skinless bodies
Of shouting hearts
Of yellow tears in wide basins

(Anonymous)

__


So what? Many things. Or just a couple, rather. Megyünk.

1. Grief. (Yeah.) That slaps the face. There is a bunch of f....n' books that talk about it. (F.... them.) I personally stay connected to Ed Underwood's. With highs and lows. With doubts. With (sometimes) rays of light. This guy has more than a heart.

And if I had courage, I'd also go back to Cloud and Townsend's one. (Asskickin' and tender.) Courage? Yep. Efficient book that reminds me the months-and-months when I took back my (sad) plane after time with the kiddies, in France, and... yes, with their gorgeous-and-yet-distant mother: S.

So... pain. Hopes that die like gyufák. Intense emotions. Intense... intents. Swampy, complex, humiliating and dark-and-golden ill context.

And it's all about her. (S.) And, for a decade now. Decade, that long? Sure. And... this morning again. (Rain.) Strange evening, yesterday. Strange morning now.

So, yesterday. By f....n' night. What happened? Long conversation with my friend I. (she and A. are warm and dedicated persons, that spent days and nights at my flat, when staying by my own was too heavy — Concrete help I call it). And? The personal feeling, yesterday, that something — in a mute mode —, was kind of blood-boiling in me.

Instincts.

Something that dealt with life, sex, death, decisions, spirituality. (Instincts.) Intuition. Forces. Mud. Unconscious. Crossroads, like an intimate melting pot. A potential. Energy. Like a mess. Like radioactive liquid granite. Like injured frogs. Like knives, chains, lymph, identity. Ok?

Fig. 1 — Jean-Michel Basquiat

Fig. 2 — Roger Ballen

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Un bel œil. Ouais. De beaux yeux, bien sûr. Et aussi, en interne, une façon de cadrer ses images, de ressentir, d'attraper les rapports de force d'une scène. Comme bien souvent, c'est gamine, en prenant sa famille en photo le dimanche, que ma compagne a musclé son œil. Comme des étincelles sortant, au départ, d'un marteau frustre. Et désormais, son quotidien - révélé sur papier - touche aux enfants, aux villes, aux routes, aux contrastes, aux sentiments et situations humains, aux identités. Son esthétique est tendue, équilibrée, typée.

En 2003, elle et moi dînons avec Joel Peter Witkin, à Toulouse. Je suis traducteur - au débotté -, elle est déjà ma compagne et le repas intimiste avec le géant de la photo peut se concevoir si et seulement si elle est là. Et elle l'est (Tu sais quoi ? Dépêche-toi : viens vite !!).