Arcadia - Blu Tungsten - une jeune femme / a young woman - la nymphe Echo / the nymph Echo - le grand dieu Pan / the great god Pan Arcadia - Blu Tunsgten 2003 à 2007. Canon G2. | Monday - My dress was red, we danced during all the day and night, under the yellow tungsten light, in front of broken dirty mirrors. | Ghosts were floated, no feet on the floor, only dust and spiders. Turning around, i was really happy. The storm outside, in the Wedding Woods. | The hanging garden is twisted. All the birds are simulators. | The smell of breed, olives, cheese and hunting dogs. Red glitters and red wine. | Echo remember the mercurochrome on her knee ; the blood dried on the ground, when she has been torn to pieces and spread all over the Earth. | I heard them laugh. I think about the photographs of the wedding, angular faces, alive red hair. The organic liquids of the hydrangeas, the rancid smell of the golden age.  | Out of the garden, where i begin to panic again and heard my own voice. Tea Party interupted. The violins become Pan pipes. | Ether, salive and hair. White noise and spectrums. Small pieces of a broken glass, our scattered reflections. | Ghosts have long hair. We were naked and i wanted to hide my body, when the angered faune intructed his followers to kill me. | The tragedy of the boiled milk. Who play the same part as the satyrs ? | Voice remained, repeating the last words of others - others - others. | The trees are screaming the name of the lecherous and horned God, the muses start to dance... | ... and the trees start their metamorphosis. | #1. Elephant's skin. | #2. An one eye river. | #3. A goat. | #4. Ovaries's battle and foetus. | #4 Les faunes meurent-ils ? | Maybe it is the blu grass that i use to smoke. The seventh clavicle ; our funerals. | I stay under the sleeping tree for hours. | Le miel, les dieux, ce calme arcadien, la lumière sous la forêt. | We can lose somebody in those woods. | The skeleton beside the swimming pool. | 21 xmas days in a clean living-room. Souvenirs in the walls, yellow paper, and a floral pattern curtains. | Smell of humid pavement, violettes and black poison. I cannot remember the taste of apples.  | Incense, wine, and a little bit of my own blood. And then...  |
