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Communicating Vessels with Louise Imagine - March 2011


"The first Friday of the month, each written on the blog of another burden to prepare each of marriages, trade, invitations. Horizontal movement to produce other links ... Do not write, but writing in another. " Vases Communicants

Traces ...

Our footsteps on the dry sand intersect those of many others. Right, fingerprints heavy cleats. Before the air race a dog snorting wildly. At left, the frail legs of a seagull in search of food. I never get tired of these strange paths, tracks interlaced us imperceptibly closer to shore. On your side, you want the shells, when you decline you find one to your taste, well hidden in the hollow of your palm as the most precious things ... Concentrated, frowning, you t'adonnes entirely at your task, the quest is not easy, the choice is difficult. How your fist can it hold? Four? Five? Just ... breeze against your cheek pink. The fine golden down of your neck rises gracefully, hesitation between heaven and shoulders, stillness and stealth miraculous, then flicker again, wind and sun to play tickle you.

I remain one step behind you. The round curve of your cheek is emerging into the light beats of your lashes to remove any sand in suspension. In the distance, the music of the carousel chopped by the wind ... In the distance, the shouts of children playing ball ... In the distance, the laughter of a group of teens came for lunch by the sea ... All of a sudden you t ' kneeling, intrigued by a detail. There may be a dust, a special shimmer. Your little fingers seek, dig and discover. Proudly, you waved in front of you a tiny white shell, smooth, translucent. A delicious pearl, iridescent and juvenile. Hands full now, you advance in no hurry to shore, you almost over, then suddenly you stop, your soles in the water. A huge smile on his face. I would tell you to back off, that your shoes are wet, you'll catch cold and it's not the right season for swimming, but the words stuck in the hollow of my throat, vibrating certainty that they would be displaced . The waves breaking on your shoes, themselves, do not seem to bother you. You start talking, and singing softly. I do not understand. You bet, although I can not perceive the recipient, your words keep coming, flowing into a haunting melody. And no matter if it has no meaning for the adult I am, it does not me addressed. Your arms a little agitated and then calm down, your voice becomes deeper and calmer ... With infinite delicacy - a delicacy that I did not think possible for a child of your age - one at a solemn, you throw overboard the beautiful shells that you had gleaned so dearly.

Fascinated, unconsciously holding my breath, I watch you do, privileged witness indescribable precious ritual erased from my memory, flooded by the dazzling beauty of what you accomplished.

Text and photo: Louise Imagine

You can read my text for Communicating Vessels here

List of other participants Vases Communicants March 2011

Candice Nguyen and Christine Jeanney

Sat Dixneuf and Stéphane Battalion

Mezenc Juliet and Christopher Grossi

François Bon and William Vissac

Michel Brosseau and Jean-Marc Undriener

Estelle Javid- Ogier and Jean Prod'hom

Vittet Anna and Joachim Senna

Cécile Portier and Christophe Sanchez

Clara Lamireau and Urban Urban too

Anita-Navarette and Barbel Arnaud Maïsetti

Morgan Riet and Murièle Modély

Nolwen Euzen and Benoit Vincent

Mary Axe and Michele Dujardin

Elise Piero and Cohen-Hadria

Anne Frank Savelli and Queyraud

Dominique Dominique Hasselmann and Autrou

Marlene Tissot and Vincent Motard-Avargues

Kouki Rossi and Brigitte Célérier

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The ∞, 47

Nothing more important. This time, nothing matters more. Instead of reversing the head back toward the sky, look up the ∞ to look for worlds and galaxies, felt himself the possibility of Orion and the stirrings of the Pleiades, it is sufficient, it is much simpler, lower the head, bow down and look at his feet, in the footsteps of his shoes, stains smeared and stained by chewing gum chewed, spat on the pavement glowing like a sob. Pits on the material world of their belching, all of them, gone before, that even the world recrachèrent to their bitter saliva they could not distill quietly in clever sarcasm.

In a sudden grin we see that Kant, thinking worlds, the hollow of calm rationality, spoke of the night sky and moral law, but he would not consider for a moment, not the least, highly improper subtraction, look at his feet on the ground and its soil, something which in one way or another, resembling windings, to sequences of galaxy improbably disintegrated. Failing masterful design in mind the wisest of all times. It is enough for me, I do not care, head down and watch the ground to see, just see, in a maddening passivity, there is nothing else to do, I can testify, galaxies that are emerging, or rather, let modest outlier constellations.

Now that I started to see, the runaway phenomenon, and I do not see more than that, no blazing constellations Ptolemy never looked, none of his disciples, never, no one thought to contemplate and for which no sighting instrument was not patiently set point. The most infamous spitting, residue oil processed in abrasive contact with the saliva, will come to transform the asphalt (no doubt we should wait until nightfall, and micas surprising texture of basalt that no day will never succeed) in constellations aberrant knew that no browser does follow in his constant search of the horizon and wise.

Yet to them that I guide my steps in the blackness of darkness, to pave my way down here. The road, it would be difficult to deny, is uncertain and the possible remains strong, certainly, but is not as advanced and guided his ship on the sea ulysséenne?

Why did not I could do the same?

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The ∞, 46

floors. I think from the morning, when our gaze was not far away in the World of Ideas,

(that counts, it is a pure abstraction, we do not look anywhere then, and the line connecting the world black centers and infix in our eyes that not watch what they watch, but bounced just in the direction of some wonderful abstraction, and transparent, transparent as to obscure in the eyes who watch obscene inscriptions on the walls, on tables, the despair of those latent , who, leaning, listen and do not listen, write and do not write, hold and do not hold that the voices prevail in these areas to the point of eliminating the task of mold and moisture s infiltrates throughout the day between the knuckles of a shaky tower, a block was added, I suppose, without doubt, one way or another, disposes Slowly and inexorably)

he remained mostly fixed on the ground in a tight bend and dry in the extreme. At our feet, in gray tracks, tarry outside. And I do not know why, except that these spaces enclose us, and we fall back to earth like a storm flap rain suddenly and slapped hopes. Artificial soil. The soil is neutral with no color, I wonder what is on his own, to be as invisible to the eye, as long as they are fixed upon him, was born on filthy industrial waste which, in part, is slowly dying after all a pond huge stink ambient air, color the dreams of yellow (for years and years I spend here, I've never been able to print on my retinas color undecided)

and when he looked away, trying with a desolation Another possible texture, there was no modulation of the world, only the gray concrete stairs and indifferent, whose corners were threatening falls, and in places, the asphalt and threatening reddish, covered with cigarette butts that idle hands they had rolled themselves, a breath had passed, and now slowly decomposed in puddles, and dotting the desert, unpublished drawing constellations and lame, unfinished worlds, abandoned by a careless creator before it has even been fully designed, without scale sketch of a dream fraying, defeat

Circles and waves of chewing gum, spit out and crushed that stained the retina.