the shadowy and melancholic tint of these series breaks with the bright and sunny colours, with that kind of Dionysiaco-tragic and sometimes lyrical enjoyment of the previous colour series, those of The Revenge of the Flesh or In Praise of Love.
Here the colour is economical, almost monochrome, the light is a sort of chiaroscuro of grey and rainy days.
Here there is northern light, bareness, traces and marks of time, the recurring poses and the summary staging, the models that I don't try to choose, that I take as they come, not too much feeling.
Why? I would be hard pressed to explain it, the spirit of the times perhaps, the accomplished course of image and life no doubt. A certain sadness of the world.
But always this obsessive quest for the truth of bodies and faces, skins, beings. An impenetrable and surly truth, which is constantly slipping away as they evade it, and yet which emerges from short privileged moments.
Waiting, hoping for the splendor of the flesh. >>>>>>
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