SURVOL FR/ENG
« Une activité souterraine bénéficie d’un mana imaginaire. Il faut garder un peu d’ombre autour de nous. Il faut savoir rentrer dans l’ombre pour avoir la force de faire notre œuvre. » La Terre et les rêveries du repos, Gaston BACHELARD
The weight of the earth on your shoulders, black and chapped lips, the taste of carbon on the tip of your tongue. It’s hot; the darkened water of your body flows down your bare chest. Child of the earth, carbon hybrid. Welcome to hell. Your ears buzz with the ambient noise, but you’ve never forgotten the sound of silence—the one that whispers breath, its fiery taste leaving your bronchi in ashes. Explosions tear through the celestial vault; its black stars collapse inexorably, meter by meter, day by day.
You feel a shiver climb up your spine as you wander alone through these immense catacombs. The ghosts are all around you, their souls still embers, their memories still fresh. Saint Barbara can do nothing for you. The mines are flooded, and the slag heaps are ablaze. What was meant to remain buried rumbles beneath our feet, inhabits our imaginations. What remains of these ghosts, of these depths where so many were left behind?
If we were to descend again, to drain the millions of liters of water that fill this dark and rough labyrinth, what would greet us? What relic lies hidden at the bottom of the shaft? From these places emptied of all presence, where no foot or gaze can now land, I try to reconstruct the images that linger. Synthetic and imaginary, these images are nevertheless laden with memory, archives, and stories. Their intertwining gives rise to a mythological vision of the mine, blending figures of the mother, death, and the sea.
A sensory exploration—the taste of sulfur in the mouth, under the deafening blows of pneumatic drills.
« Une activité souterraine bénéficie d’un mana imaginaire. Il faut garder un peu d’ombre autour de nous. Il faut savoir rentrer dans l’ombre pour avoir la force de faire notre œuvre. » La Terre et les rêveries du repos, Gaston BACHELARD
The weight of the earth on your shoulders, black and chapped lips, the taste of carbon on the tip of your tongue. It’s hot; the darkened water of your body flows down your bare chest. Child of the earth, carbon hybrid. Welcome to hell. Your ears buzz with the ambient noise, but you’ve never forgotten the sound of silence—the one that whispers breath, its fiery taste leaving your bronchi in ashes. Explosions tear through the celestial vault; its black stars collapse inexorably, meter by meter, day by day.
You feel a shiver climb up your spine as you wander alone through these immense catacombs. The ghosts are all around you, their souls still embers, their memories still fresh. Saint Barbara can do nothing for you. The mines are flooded, and the slag heaps are ablaze. What was meant to remain buried rumbles beneath our feet, inhabits our imaginations. What remains of these ghosts, of these depths where so many were left behind?
If we were to descend again, to drain the millions of liters of water that fill this dark and rough labyrinth, what would greet us? What relic lies hidden at the bottom of the shaft? From these places emptied of all presence, where no foot or gaze can now land, I try to reconstruct the images that linger. Synthetic and imaginary, these images are nevertheless laden with memory, archives, and stories. Their intertwining gives rise to a mythological vision of the mine, blending figures of the mother, death, and the sea.
A sensory exploration—the taste of sulfur in the mouth, under the deafening blows of pneumatic drills.
Edition of 25, 29.7x42cm, risography, stickers, silk-screen printing.
“Les crinoïdes”, La Sira, Asnières-sur-Seine, 2024