There’s a lot of seriousness in these faces. A cry, almost, but in a reserved and restrained way. The acute awareness that everything will soon topple over. It’ll be necessary to do something with yourself, to become involved in a world that pulsates beyond forests of carelessness and lightness. The first thunderstorms and showers that will blow everything away will succeed the plant-covered, friendly breeze of vacations where boredom exudes its necessary warmth. For Summer Eleven,the artist returned to the village where she grew up in search of an innocence brutally engulfed by events that her childhood didn’t grasp. Here, melancholy is the name of a flower that struggles to lift itself toward a sun veiled by a shiver and fear.
Text from Astrid Chaffringeon