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Abandoned land

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She stands at the edge of the cliff, the green valley is swallowed under the mist. She remembers when she was a child living in this green and rich valley. It seems like yesterday, she still can feel the touch of grass under her feet.

These days when she ran through the green meadow, with all the dreams filled with cotton candies and ribbons and honey were over. Even the boy with wheat color hair who was running after her and promissed her with sweet words and delicious vows disappeared in the air.

All changed that day when some villagers threw out the rumour about her, people chased her out of the village. She remembers she ran for a long time, through her childhood meadow, through the wheat field, leaving the grass land behind; She ran through rivers, throughs abandoned lands, until her feet were tainted red, until the forest trees.

The forest embraced her, it welcomed her into its secrets and since then, she becamed a part of the forest, she forgot cotton candies, she forgot all the ribbons, she even forgot the wheat color hair boy.

All that remained were his eyes starring at her that day, where people chasing her from her home.

But it’s OK now, she’s found a new home, in the secret of the dark forest, between the trees and the damned.

Photo: Lodovicus Nym

In the eye of the Storm

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He takes a sip of the spirit while looking outside the window. The sky is covered with grey menacing clouds, heavy winds make all the threes of the forest under the window headbanging following an inaudible but crazy melody.
All the memories come back in his head, the flood of memories swallows each of his smallest neurons, he almost feel the heat of her skin back in the day. He still see her lying on the floor all naked and fragile but with lust in her eyes, like a beautiful succubus.

He remembers the taste of her skin, it’s like bitting in a warm hazelnut, soft and smooth and she tasted exactly like that, a taste of golden autumn evening, with chimney smoke’s smell blended with wet earthen scent in the air.
He remembers her hair, he let his fingers running down this onyx river and felt the fresh touch of the soft silk.

She was an angel, a fallen one. She was a white spot on the dark oak parquet, she went down for him as her heart’d beaten for him since the beginning of univers, since there was only void and nought and all that were in movement was some fusion energies crossing space.

He miss her. He miss the touch of her skin under his hand, he miss her small voice when she said she loved him and she gave herself, her all self to him.

He knows that he’ll never have these sensations again, they’ll remain sweet memories for him during rainy days as he made her his own that day. Even if he still feel the power of her heart in his blood and her warm energy around his gut, he’ll never been able to touch her skin again as she fell into pieces and disappeared into the void this day, after she offered him her burning heart that tasted like hot caramel.

A lightning shatters the black cloak of the sky.

A great thanks to Yann Lestrelin for these beautiful pictures.

Love Hotel

By Blog4 Comments

A ray of sunlight sneaks through the heavy curtain of the room and wakes me up. I open my eyes and take a while to remember where I am.
I think he’s gone now. Men are always like this, they spend a sweet night and then they’re gone, leaving you alone with the sunlight of day and a hotel room full of ghosts hiding behind masks of memory. After all, it’s not a big deal, I turn my back to the window and contemplate the royal blue wall. The room is warm even with this color on the wall, this kind of bitter sweet cosiness when the royal blue is lighted with honey lightbulbs.

Suddenly, the door is openned and he enters with a tray full of strawberries and glasses of milk. He smiles at me and opens the heavy curtain, golden light splashs violently on my naked body, half curled inside the sheet. He looks good in the sunlight.

He shows me the tray of strawberries and milk and kiss my forehead. I don’t like strawberry and I don’t like milk, but he’s so gentle and kind I picked a strawberry and bite its soft skin, my lips turn red and red juice run along my mouth to my chin.
The red drop falls down to the snow white sheet. I look at it for a while, drinking the white milk, feeling the fresh liquid go down inside my throad and swamp behind my breasts.

He stands just next to the veil curtain of the window asking me if I know that the room was once rented by a politician? I told him no and ask him what’s happenned to the politician? He tell me that the man evaporated in the air after murdering a lot of beautiful girls.

The strawberry drop on the sheet now seems to be scarlet. He ask me to come near him, I put the glass on the tray and scramble next to him. He wraps me slightly in the curtain veil and holds me with his large hands. The golden sunlight shines too hard over his head that i’m blinded. All I see was a ball of light running down through my skin.

And all I remember afterward is  scarlet color everywhere on my hair and a scarlet river bursts out from my chest.

There’s no royal blue color anymore.

Photo: Ojo Del Gato
Place: DSK’s place

Alone

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Maybe all this is because I was always firecely refused to be someone’s muse…

I don’t really know. All that remains is now melancholia.

All that I can do is to hold on and sing along. R.E.M. gave a good advice.

« When your day is long
And the night
The night is yours alone
When you’re sure you’ve had enough
Of this life
Well hang on
Don’t let yourself go
‘Cause everybody cries
And everybody hurts sometimes

Sometimes everything is wrong
Now it’s time to sing along
When your day is night alone (hold on)
(Hold on) if you feel like letting go (hold on)
If you think you’ve had too much
Of this life
Well, hang on
‘Cause everybody hurts
Take comfort in your friends
Everybody hurts
Don’t throw your hand
Oh, no
Don’t throw your hand
If you feel like you’re alone
No, no, no, you’re not alone
If you’re on your own
In this life
The days and nights are long
When you think you’ve had too much
Of this life
To hang on
Well, everybody hurts sometimes
Everybody cries
And everybody hurts sometimes
And everybody hurts sometimes
So, hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Hold on, hold on
Everybody hurts

You are not alone »

All photos are by https://www.lodovicusnym.com/

Sincerity

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Today I want to discuss a bit about sincerity.
I always think that sincerity is an important element in life and I do believe that the beauty of a piece of art lies in sincerity before talent and sensibility. Because you have to be sincere to express your whole sensibility without hiding anything.

In photography, particularly when you’re model or self-portraitist, sincerity should be the master element when you’re in front of the camera.

A great thank you to Art Ground for this moment.
I love your sensibility and your sincerity.

And you, what do you think about sincery in art and in life? Don’t hesistate to leave a comment. 🙂

Ode à la Lune

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Bonjour à tous,

Aujourd’hui, je souhaite vous offrir 2 traductions de poèmes d’un de mes poètes vietnamiens préférés, Hàn Mặc Tử, dont j’ai eu l’occasion de présenter sur ma page facebook la semaine dernière. La lune est un élément qui apparait très souvent dans ses oeuvres, comme s’il y a une attirance surnaturelle entre lui et cette astre argentée.
Quoi qu’il en soit, j’espère que les traductions vous plairont. Elles seront accompagnées de photos issues d’une séance inoubliable avec Gilbert Pecqueur.

Fantaisie

Tout juste grandie, la lune est déjà timide
Elle sens bon comme l’histoire d’amour des moinesses
Le vent ivre pleureur dans la lumière
Les fleurs et moi en sont émus

Pendant que la magie enveloppe la nuit
Il y a quelque chose qui tombe au milieu du silence
Il tombe depuis le haut de l’éther
Et le léger son résonne dans le cœur.

L’âme des fleurs et moi restent silencieux
Nous échangeons nos tendresses
Afin de de réchauffer nos rêveries
Afin que le ciel ne tressaille pas.

Depuis le début de la nuit jusqu’à 4 heure
Je vois la lune se transforme
Comme de la fumée du pays des rêves
Chaque minute passe, plus de poésie.

La lumière de la lune est tellement mince que
Elle n’arrive pas à cacher la pâleur du lac
Ni la tristesse des saules
Ni les supplications du néant.

L’atmosphère est épais de Lune
Je suis Lune et tu es aussi Lune
Chaque image, chaque vision est de plus en plus moqueur
Tu es tellement loin de moi! M’entends-tu?

Ivre de Lune

Je crache mon âme par ma bouche
Pourqu’elle vole minauder avec les cieux
Là haut, il y a quelqu’un
Entrain de laver la soie dans la voie lactée
L’eau devient Lune, Lune devient l’eau
La soie est imprégnée du parfume de la Lune
Le corps de Lune, habit de Lune
Uniquement les joues sont vermeilles
Attends, je fais une accolade à la Lune
Je rêve de Lune, je ramasse la Lune tombée
La Lune est empêtré dans les branches, dans les cheveux,
Mademoiselle, restez tranquille, je décroche la Lune de vos cheveux
Puis vous pouvez partir. Lentement, vous partez…
La Lune se fond et devient écumes, comment je peux encore t’aimer?
Ce soir, la Lune est partout
Jeter les sanglots sur ton prochain mariage
Ivre! Ivre à en stupéfier tout un ciel de poésie
Le vent hurle là haut, la Lune tombe à la renverse
Éclatant en de milliers de flaques d’or
J’étais allongé dans la flaque de Lune cette nuit là
Au matin, dans la folie, je vomis du sang.

Welcome to my Nightmare

By Blog2 Comments

Hello everybody,

I hope you’re alright in this time of pandemic, where lockdown is ordered in almost places now.
It might be not a nice situation for some of you and I can understand if you live in a small flat without even a small balcony in a big city. But I really think it’s a good decision to calm down the spread of disease. So please respect all government’s instructions and protect yourself, protect others.

It’s about time to show you one part of my work with the wonderful, talented and extremely sensitive Art Ground/Sköld Picture. He really has a fantastic univers, dark, cold and oh really really rich with dark emotions.

Let’s go with the excellent Alice Cooper’s song!

« Welcome To My Nightmare »

Welcome to my nightmare, I think you’re gonna like it, I think you’re gonna feel you belong.
A nocturnal vacation, unnecessary sedation, you want to feel at home ’cause you belong.
Welcome to my nightmare whoa, ho, ho, ho…

Welcome to my breakdown.
I hope I didn’t scare you.
That’s just the way we are when we come down.
We sweat and laugh and scream here.
‘Cause life is just a dream here.
You know inside you feel right at home, here.
Yeah, Welcome to my nightmare yeah, hey, hey, hey…

Welcome to my nightmare!
I think you’re gonna like it!
I think you’re gonna feel you belong!
We sweat and laugh and scream here!
‘Cause life is just a dream here!
You know inside you feel right at home, here!

Welcome to my nightmare hoo, hoo, woo, hoo…
Welcome to my breakdown…

Yeah!

Hope you enjoy this serie.
Stay home, wash your hands, don’t kiss, don’t shake hand, don’t buy 100kg of pasta/rice/noodle, don’t buy 100 toilette paper rolls, use water.
And wash your hands. 😉

Take care and see ya next week.

Concubine de Lune

By Blog6 Comments

Lune.
Je n’ai ni l’or ni vermeil, ni la bouche joyeuse écarlate ou le mystère des belles mirettes.
Je n’ai rien, hélas! Puisque j’ai même rendu mes ébènes nébuleux.

Je n’ai plus rien pour attirer ton regard. Alors en cette nuit froide, m’enveloppant d’un peu de brouillard complice je te fais obole cette lutte de nacre et de chaume.

Que le feu de ces jougs atteint tes ondes argentées, et à nouveau, tu me laisseras baigner dans ta rivière nacrée.

Merci à ceux qui ont rendu possible cette série.

Photo: Karl Koch.
Assistant: Pierre.

Taming the demon – With Gilbert Pecqueur

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It’s quite the end of winter already and in my hometown, in the North of France, it’s rainning a lot these days.

Last week, while walking through the path that lead my way to the yoga lesson, I stopped to look at the heavy rain falling on the abandonned field on the other side of the path. Under the heavy rain and the grey sky, the large field with its brown soil is drapped under a thin haze. The scene was spectacular and mesmerizing. I was standing there, under my umbrella, listening to the rain and couldn’t take my eyes off this scene.

During ocassions like this, my mind always flies away, it was with the rain outside, dancing on dead roots of the field , under the rain. It swallowed in the thin haze before arising freely in the heavy sky.
… And all my body want to move, want to dance, want to joint this rythm of nature, there’s something inside me which want to burst out of my breast and sway in the wind, creating vortex of rain and dive deep into this wild nature.

All this is really disturbing as I was a very shy child. Small, shy and discreet. Who was not at ease with her body. When I was younger, I always had the unpleasant impression that my body is a strange thing and it does what ever it wants, it didn’t obey my orders when I ordered it do dance, to move with grace and lightly. Even my mouth refused to obey when I had to talk with strangers and it said silly things when I managed to produce some sounds in front of people that impress me…

I’ve been through a lot of thing since that age. I don’t know if it’s experience, all the chance I had with my parents’ education, with people that I’ve met since, with all the artistic and athletic disciplines that I had the chance to practice. Maybe it’s all this. But now, whenever I have this little thing inside me that want to burst out from my gut, I know that I shouldn’t give it any order, but just let it out and express freely. It’s all the magic I had learnt: taming my own demon.

A huge thank you to Gilbert Pecqueur for his kindness and his talent. Thank you for accepting my demon at your studio.

Asian Flowers

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Beauté d’Antan

 

La pluie tombe sans arrêt sur l’antique tour
Tes longs bras tendent vers l’époque où tes yeux bleuissent de fatigue
J’entends la pluie des feuilles d’automne sur chacun de tes pas
La route est tellement longue qu’elle donne de la profondeur à tes yeux.

La pluie tombe sans arrêt sur les petits feuillages
Dans le crépuscule, j’attends après la pluie
J’attends après la pluie des feuilles mortes sur tes pas, silencieux
Soudain l’âme bleuit de froid et de douleur

Ce soir il pleut, mais tu n’es pas là
Comment faire dans la douleur de demain?
Comment être ensemble? Encore plus de tristesse
Reviens sur tes pas!

La pluie continue de tomber sur l’océan ombrageux de la vie
Comment tu te souviens des empreintes des oiseaux migrateurs?
Pluie, s’il te plaît, passe sur ces grandes territoires
Pour que l’aventurier nomade puisse oublier son sort

La pluie continue de tomber sur l’océan de la vie
Comment tu sais que la pierre de souffre pas?
Pluie, s’il te plaît, passe sur ces grandes territoires
Car demain, même les petits galets ont besoin des uns des autres
.

-Trinh Cong Son-

J’ai décidé d’accompagner cette gallérie avec la traduction de cette magnifique chanson d’un des plus grands compositeurs/auteurs de mon pays. C’est un excellent représentant du courant romantique réaliste de la musique vietnamienne pendant et après la guerre civile.
Ici, il pleure un amour passé.
Je ne sais absolument pas pourquoi ce choix, ça me vient juste comme ça. Peut-être parce que Christian ARNOD m’a expliqué que cette séance qu’on a réalisé ensemble, avec l’excellent travail de make up et de body pain de ma chère Banshee Xuân Make Up Artist , fait partie de son projet d’expo sur l’Asie.

Dans tous les cas, enjoy.

Bisous licorne sur vous.