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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.

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The ∞, 45

Erosion. The world wears. By the surface. Strata less tenable friable stone no longer support the ongoing clashes or shocks. We did not finish, we do not end up never to get out of this hell, going down to the limbo of this confinement and escape, and this world choked, and choking this, we never finish, no hope we will never again, and there will be nothing else to do, once they reach the bottom, if we do, watch the slow consumption of a cigarette smoldering on the moist soil of the night, before the heavy finish does not overwrite it.

What is complicated, certainly, is to determine what mechanism produces on us the most intense wear. One must imagine

Walker Evans, American pierced pain of the Great Depression, leaning toward the ground, bent, no doubt, and collecting the smallest details of a world scale, looking in the asphalt and bitumen the heat intense summer made it almost glow, almost viscous, possible traces of a passage, and defeated the strands of our business, and achieving one of its most incredible shots of silent for a moment that overwhelmed won . And looked toward the ground, staring into the footprints useless and idle, to shrink from this world full of rebuffs him, like all others, received the full force, these traces in the dust fleeting impression that alone would transmit a steady hand and yet, beyond huge day, comes onto our retina.

Plots uprooted from our visit to the world, that as much as it disintegrates and crumbles under the ninety-six clashes that each of our parts will impose, in turn, requires us to insidious and persistent destruction. Our mark is not certainly in the loose soil after rain, which supports our work imperfectly, but the trace of our presence there will be kept longer than necessary to bring a new storm, even more ruthless than the last. We bow down a bit in the rain, by a reflex bad I can not explain. Cons brambles which are gradually invading the way, some of our coat pulls, discards, and the tiny bit of material that is removed we will find its place on the asphalt shining a desperate shot by Walker Evans.

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The ∞, 44

Distortion. Time and space, without doubt, not resist. It is highly implausible that we would go out free at the same time course and that the elastic resistance of nightmares do not come back as violently as we try to keep them away. The day is spent in frenzied stretch these stairs, in which words resonate and make incomprehensible meanings, which must not yield. Do not turn away, even if you hear your name called in these sound spaces. To believe that the breakaway is unpredictable, we can not be sure of anything, that our fate is highly unlikely ... Polyphemus we look there's eye that we have not drilled, in our haste, our unpreparedness? How have we forgotten to do?

Where is Odysseus, and how, without his help, would we hope to win out?

Our flight is slow and slower, as if our movements, by the irresistible force of some magical potion that we breathed in the dust chalk, were arrested in the spring, and then we started to descend the stairs in the morning light, we will not get down at nightfall, after the last light of dusk are extinguished, in-flaming . In the deep night, while we escape. Where is Odysseus, and his assured and reassuring possibility? It is possible that in our misfortune, we are alone in this staircase ∞, and that nothing happens, nothing it continues, there is for us to pursue our own shadows that our own shadows and our own anxieties, distorted and distorting. It is possible

that our world is empty and finite.

It is possible, I am afraid that the concrete surrounds us is the only source of our gray and indifferent world. That our nightmares are our shadows projected on the walls of indifference, that no Cyclops does not concern us in our flight absurd, his one eye fixed on us, we have failed to break through ... But where is Odysseus and his possibility?