'Blue Series' solo show — Espaï Tactel


It is an indelible blue, a death without star where memories suffice. A fractal blue splitting up objects, faces, and places — the blue on her cheek, the blue on his fingers stained by wine, the blue of a dress, roses and a snake on her bare feet, rosary and eyes of plaster. The irised blue of a pair of shorts, erotic shine from lycra burning fragile thigh’s hair, the blue of a bunch of irises with thin petals liquified for being too long cut — it is the blue of an ether’s bottle putting reality to sleep, a psychological magnifying glass whose drama will fade with time.


Iris does not wither, it rots. It’s flower, fragile edge and fleshy center does not dry, it liquifies. Blue ink organic and stringy, that will stain the white and flawless tablecloth.


Behind the undulation of a blue curtain incrusted of sparkling stones, opened for the first time the strange’s door. It was already music and undulation that captivated all senses. Behind the fabric, femininity and violence would make their chemistry.
To this day, Isabella Rossellini’s eyes are still piercing under her eyelids in blue eye-shadows the fabric incrusted of sparkling stones of my memory.


He has a fascinating beauty, his arms are thin and under his white skin his veins are pumping in blue. It gives him something more than us still slurred in our childhood’s flesh. At night, I let my arms hang along side the sofa, trying to drop blood in my hands in order to see my veins pumping.


From the bedroom’s window one can see pines’ branches moving, vegetal clouds disgorging yellow pollen in the azure. Two magpies are arguing with noise. What treasure are they fighting for?