Indiscretions

Glancing where it is not supposed to be, where it is not expected. In the place and at the moment that he himself did not imagine, which perhaps did not exist before his passing, and will have disappeared afterwards, leaving as a trace only that of the witness who transformed the ephemeral into the perpetual.

For a long time, a forbidden zone for my curiosity, through apprehension or inhibition, it constituted a vast field for my fantasies or contained desires. Until the day when discretion opened the way for me, revealing its part in the unknown where my primary instinct refused to venture.

Since then, every situation has been a beautiful challenge to art and the way of intruding into intimacy, with that delicacy that will dress the intrusion with a certain lightness.

When you're dressed up in a little bit, your imagination, filled with desire, takes care of the rest, discreetly.

Fine lace of light as a shroud and fleeting consolation of my lived happiness, I now feed on darkness and the occasional glance of a few passers-by. An eye turned towards life, my memories, and the oscillation of time.

For you, I would get that moon.

Time passes, the spirit remains.

It is hidden between the lines...the truth.

Let the spirits pass with the air that creeps in. Those who care, protect, console, watch over. The evil ones who escape with pain and regret. Open door to the shivers of the world, the dreams, and those they bring on their wings.

When in the early hours, great emotions inhabit the banks of the Seine, she gets out of bed and burst into flames, lighting up glances that whisper, vibrate and take me as a witness. A discreet delight in the blue night of a warm summer.

You're reverberating!

Neither frilly nor laces. Pure elegance.

Halfway between the past and the future, time for a... pose.

Mondrian, sitting at the slide window of a missing person.

Prisoner of my celebrity, like all great ladies. Inaccessible, protected at the height of the praise that covers me from head to toe. From near or far, as long as the admirers pay tribute to me, I am fulfilled.

A journey through the history of art that the world envies us. A flight of steps on the way to the beautiful works. An invasion that becomes a fantastic ride to the sound of a saxophone that accompanies it.

If only we could hang a carrycot on it!

Strange balloons, inflated with self and words. Only the bathtub is listening.

In the hollow of your discreet effusion, so many Romeos and Juliets have whispered their romance. So many hearts have sung and continue their courtship.

When the longtime of truancy comes...

The marbles have grown. The shorts have lengthened. The pleasure of the game remains intact.

Ascension, a watchword that reigns from early childhood to the confines of wisdom. Day and night, in any place and in any culture, climbing the steps again and again. Who questions the destination? Who is shaking up the raison d'être? Who seeks the presence of happiness in every step?

Buried glances, the time for a pose made of desired intimacy and elegant discretion.

My Mediterranean is the scent of umbrella pines, the flavour of olive oil, cicadas humming the tune of happiness, and...laundry drying in the sun, floating like so many pennants to celebrate its legendary well-being.