Going back to Moco on Saturday, I once again stopped in front of an Antony James piece that, on my first visit, had quickly worn me out: too much formal mastery, a perfection of angles where control bothers me more than it fascinates me.
This time, the experience shifted; as I leaned in, letting my gaze fall into the multiplied depth of the structure, a sentence came to me: “grief is abyssal.” The triangular framework unfolds to infinity, as if each point replayed the same pain on another plane, slightly displaced. The gaze slips through the luminous gaps, between spark and remainder. The light carves up the void, giving it an almost surgical precision: a geometric abyss where the gaze gets caught in its own insistence… and there is a bottom, reachable, then another one again. Rock bottom, as they say here: coming out of the vertigo, the trajectory shifts.
In the same movement, the equivocation opened up: the abyssal pull became A tyrant (a) bis sale, with the sharp clarity of a session’s scansion brief, cutting. Now, a touch of gentleness: there is a lot of it in the pale pink petals announcing spring.
( attirance abyssale “A tyran, (a) bis sale” )
( maintenant un peu de douceur, il y en a beaucoup dans le rose pâle des pétales annonçant le printemps, “ main tenant, douce heure, la rose parle, ah non c’est emprunt, tant ; beau coût ; beau coup” )