Dans le blanc de la neige, les lignes dessinent des volutes, des contours sur la surface.

The Burial of the Dead

“April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

Winter kept us warm, covering

Earth in forgetful snow, feeding

A little life with dried tubers.

(...)

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow

Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know only

A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,

And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,

And the dry stone no sound of water. Only

There is shadow under this red rock,

(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),

And I will show you something different from either

Your shadow at morning striding behind you

Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?

‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;

‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’

—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.’’

T.S.Eliot, « The Waste Land », dans The Waste Land and Other Poems, Londres, Penguin Classics, 2003, p.55-56

2018

COVERING EARTH IN FORGETFUL SNOW

Série de 3 photographies,
73 x 48,5 cm
Tirages jet d’encre pigmentaire sur papier Epson Enhanced Matte Paper 189g

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