It’s a telluric world, coming from underground, with its chasms, its secret cavities, its swirls, frozen by lava. At the same time, water erodes it, but the weariness of the rock, the waves searching the aperture, the abutments, forcing its sides or excavating them, belong to times long past. Then, the abyssal dark plunges…
Inside and around, organ-like sounds can be heard. A draped figure, silhouetted, and resembling a watermark arises… Sometimes, in the back light, while passing through the ink of spaces, sometimes its shape enveloping the rock, incarnating the body, fading away as it runs aground Wherever you go, on rock faces or at the edge of a chasm, the woman, whose obsidian body lies like a recumbent statue, passes.

 

Or, the woman coming from another life, draped in its sail, emerging out of the afterlife…
Here she is, erect, upstanding at the prow of a rock, on the verge of disappearing. Or, upright, in her halo; or, ethereal, motionless. Sometimes totally insubstantial, before rock embraces her. Feeling sorrow, for eternity, for the past life. Or leaving the wake of love in her path. Being close to an intimate drama that embellishes the secret of a woman coming back to familiar places, haunting them, because of the abyss, the darkness. She is a ghost, by the side of the track, on the edge of the sign left on her trail, of the silky bow on a black background,… of the ball posy withering on the bank. She’s also the lost love a giant heart announces before taking off, never engraving her features or her body.
All made of shreds, embracing her soul. Her mask alone appears to the glazing reflections, looking aground and dispossessed from herself as well.

J.R. GEYER

2011 PARIS