Élitiste, et alors ? » titrait le quotidien “Libération” dans un article paru le 6 mars dernier à propos de “Tale(s) Magazine”… Eh oui, “Tale(s) s’adresse aux têtes chercheuses, aux uns qui aiment s’aventurer en terres inconnues, aux autres qui se laissent entraîner vers des univers engagés sur tous les territoires de la création, mode, musique, art, architecture, idées, littérature…
Une fois de plus, avec ce numéro “Polar”, nous vous invitons à perdre le Nord, à suivre votre intuition, à naviguer à vue au gré de nos pages virtuelles, et à mener votre enquête sur les trésors que nous y avons cachés.
Histoires mystérieuses, élégance obscure, mondes souterrains, jeux d’énigmes, disparitions furtives, commissariat fantôme, souvenirs imaginaires, preuves incertaines, c’est à vous de jouer…
Et pour vous aider, quelques indices : Sara Kamalvand, Olivier Amsellem, Vincent Estellon, Johnny Gembitsky, Jean-Marc Avrilla, Romain Osi… et toute l'équipe d'investigateurs qui contribuent brillamment au succès du magazine.
LIFE(S)
Natures (presque) mortes
Docu-fiction,
par Olivier Amsellem
True Balls :
les boulettes de viande à la tomate
Recette par Sonia Layer
L'angoisse
Par Vincent Estellon
Lonely Sands
Portfolio de Romain Orsi
Vidéo
10-22 au Parking
Par Sophie Glanddier
The Mystery of The Vanishing Judy
Nouvelle de Leigh Newman
STYLE(S)
Every Night I Die on Your Carpet
Photos de Lars Pilmann
Vidéo
Atsuro Tayama
Front Row – Comptes-rendus de défilés
Par Olivier Vaccaro
Miss Brooklyn
Photos de Johnny Gembitsky
Mr. Peter Cooping
Interview,
recueilli par Sophie Lebas de Lachesnay
Focus – Du constructivisme
Aganovich
Focus – Tradition contemporaine
Arnys
Elizabeth Short
Photos de Twin-Shotone
VISION(S)
L'œuvre retrouvée
Par Jean-Marc Avrilla
Téhéran underground
– Épisode 1
Par Sara Kamalvand
Téronto ville fiction
– Épisode 2
Interview Sara Kamalvand,
recueilli par Raphaële Bidault-Waddington
This And That
Par Eileen Sommerman & Alice Vergara
La disparition en architecture
Par Annabelle Hagmann
HARMONY(S)
Un Nageur en plein ciel
Interview Lorent Idir,
recueilli par Reiko Underwater
Le Grand Bizarre
Par Reiko Underwater
Vinyles
Sélection de Sabina Kangerud
et Mathieu Cesarsky
The Death Valley
Par Sacha Barclet
Retour à la Lumière
Par Reiko Underwater
Editorial
“Elitist… so what?” That’s how the daily newspaper Libération described Tale(s) Magazine in a March 6th article… Well, yes, Tale(s) does address itself to inquiring minds, to those who like to venture into unknown territories, to others who allow themselves to be led toward universes committed to all domains of creativity, fashion, music, art, architecture, ideas, literature…
Once again, with our “Noir” issue, we invite you to lose your way, follow your intuition, navigate by sight, meandering through our virtual pages and investigating the treasures we’ve hidden there.
Mysterious stories, obscure elegance, subterranean worlds, enigmatic games, furtive disappearances, deserted police stations, imaginary memories, flimsy evidence — it’s your move…
To give you a hand, here are a few clues: Sara Kamalvand, Olivier Amsellem, Vincent Estellon, Johnny Gembitsky, Jean-Marc Avrilla, Romain Osi… and the entire investigation team that has brilliantly contributed to the success of the magazine.
Almut Vogel
Photo Olivier Amsellem
text Baptiste Piégay
Marseille, 1990s. The Underworld manages numerous nightspots stretching all the way to Aix-en-Provence. A photographer and writer decide to investigate, following the gangsters’ leads — so well that they take themselves for the protagonists in this shady business. Between fiction and realty, the thoughts of those two accomplices get more and more muddled, until they themselves begin to personify the organized crime legend. Warning: docu-fiction ahead!
Footsteps smack into a puddle of water — the last sound as a hand reaches toward the car radio and some humdrum tune is about to puke out of the speakers. The moon is choked by the clouds — the last image. Nicotine with an aftertaste of whiskey & Coke — the last taste. No white light, no life flashing before your eyes, no time for regrets or an inventory of luck. From the perspective of his swan song, there’s nothing to indicate that the life of Olivero Baldini (a.k.a. “the Poison,” for reasons owing less to that outmoded method of murder than to Olivero’s talent for pissing everybody off) was exceptionally gratifying.
From the point of view of the police, who will inspect the scene an hour later, it evinced a certain logic offering up a moral code pandering to their vision of the world — admittedly fairly Manichaean — reinforcing its belief that crime doesn’t pay. Which made their reasoning kind of dumb in the sense that, at 40, the stiff had numerous bank accounts, totaling six-figures, in his name (three of which would remain unknown to all, including his children, who the agency charged with turning a profit out of it would be sure to alert). It was a short but efficiently run existence.
That not withstanding, the cops were thrilled to discover that he was finally rendered harmless, even if, upon further reflection, it was going to stir up quite a mess among the gangster’s rivals — his bitter former lieutenants and faithful second swordsmen. They certainly wouldn’t fail to make the most of their expectations and their legitimacy to take over now-vacant positions. Anything that lawlessness could ensure as income streams. With the exception of arms trading, so as to avoid any dealings with the Russians, who aren’t attentive enough to their business partners and never escape the attention of an intelligence community naturally suspicious of the use of explosives but less so of prostitutes.
The soap-opera-like developments that suddenly took shape forced the already swamped organized crime unit to work overtime, for low wages and even more sources of matrimonial anguish. As if things weren’t complicated enough, certain members of the brigade asked for a divorce, then custody of their sons, which would irreparably drive a detective to depression, alcoholism, addiction to various euphoric substances, then to the need to supplement his income by coming to an arrangement with small dealers and, before long, bigger ones, to whom he would owe huge sums of money and who would bump him off one fine morning on the Sète Port. But we’re not there yet.
• During “the Aix nightclub war,” twenty people were killed at The Oxydium in what remains the most striking event of the ‘90s.
• “Slaughter at The Telephone Bar” (Marseille), October 3, 1978. Ten dead.
• November 27, 1983, after being tailed for several weeks, Gaëtan Zampa is arrested at a spot known as “Le Ranquet.”
• The Marseille courthouse. In 1968, at the age of 22, Francis the Belgian joins the Organized Crime Files.
• The Krypton disco, managed by Christiane Zampa, has been closed since 1984.
• The summer of ’84. Despite a maximum sentence of only five years, Tany Zampa hangs himself in his cell at Baumettes Prison with a jump rope.
Lonely Sands
The Island and Its Man
That’ll be him, the detective.
In any case, there’s no choice.
A puzzle, okay. An investigation, no problem. That’s all we need to fill the void and finally find someone else on this island. For want of anything better, he now understands that he’ll make himself the hero in his own story.
From high on his island, the horizon becomes turbulent and opaqueness seems to have an odor. The detective stiffens before the delicate scent of fear. A tough thriller to play out all alone.
He keeps moving. No more sound, just silence. He hurtles down the abandoned earth that came to a standstill exactly where people truly wanted to leave it. The traces that remain can be read like fluorescent signs, above, below, everywhere. The path is long but he feels like he’s gathering good stuff, certain that he’ll be able to connect the dots. He passes, meets, suspects mirages, or maybe it’s just his own reflection that continues to run on this beach.
And as a storm approaches, he valiantly offers the world these words, “A hero is never alone, a hero never dies.”
R.O.
By Leigh Newman
The Mystery of Vanishing Judy
Thus begins The Vanishing Shadow by Marget Sutton, volume one in the Judy Bolton Mystery Series. Judy Bolton, high-school girl detective, surfaced in American publishing in 1932, via the publishers Grosset and Dunlap. There were other girl detectives out there: Nancy Drew (also a teenager), Cherry Ames (a nurse), and Vickie Barr (an airline stewardess). All of them, in fact, sold more copies and earn their protagonists more fame.
Judy, however, was my mother’s favorite. She collected all 38 volumes and kept them intact, down to their covers. I was presented with the full set on the day of my birth, along with all the other items mother had collected for her daughter-to-come: A set of costumed dolls from each country she had visited (Argentina tango lady through Yemen tunic lady), a set of green Amelia Earhart luggage (including a smart little toiletry box with a magic golden key), not to mention Bermuda bag, a wood-handled purse that came with a 100-odd covers that you could changed daily to match your outfit. Each trimmed in fetching rickrack.
I was small, dirty tomboy. Dolls were creepy, purses dorky, and the luggage perfect for running away on a steam freighter to Madagascar…except that I was too chicken to do it. But the Judy Bolton books always intrigued me. For most of my childhood I had an unhealthy, queasy relationship with their covers that was more about fear than sex, but nevertheless felt vaguely pornographic.
Regularly before bed, I would look at The Mystic Ball, which features a dramatic, skeletal gypsy gripping a crystal ball with her long, grabby-looking fingers. Then I would put the book down, turn off the light, and picture her in my bed until I was shaking with the terror, about to pee my nightgown. Ditto for The Ghost Parade, which portrayed various primitive (an perhaps slightly derogatory) masques in mid-grimace and moan.
Timeless qualities
By the time I cracked open my first Bolton mystery, I was eight and Judy was 47. In human years. In book years, she was still sixteen. And though she was not cool, or not even not-cool, since no other kids I knew had ever heard of her, I liked her immediately. Take that first passage. “Hey Judy,” said Lanky Edna Jenkins. “Get your nose out of that book!”
Judy was a reader. I was a reader. We both were plagued by ding-dongs always telling us not to read, for some reason or another. She had to solve mysteries. I had to scoop up the dog poop on the lawn.
Then there were her other qualities, all of them admirable. She was rude. (Note how she disses Lanky Edna Jenkins). She loses her temper, not just with her darling grandmother but with a surly roadworker who soon after kidnaps her. She gets regularly furious at her invalid brother, Horace, because the whole family gives him whatever he wants, and, once, dares him to ride a horse – a trip that almost kills him. Then again, when Lanky Edna Jenkins makes fun of Horace, Judy defends him. Because she is also loyal.
And honest. And smart. And good at figuring out that the hand of a ghost waving in the window of her house, is actually the tail of white stray kitten leaping across the room (The Haunted Attic).
Judy, like most girls, has a mother, a father and a sibling she holds in medium esteem. Her dad is a doctor but not a successful one, in terms of wealth and power. She never has money to buy the ticket to the fancy dance or the spelling bee. Her hair is red, which Marget Sutton half-heartedly tries to convince us is “auburn.” She gets older. She, in fact, gets married (turning down a rich boy for a poor one) and has an adopted daughter for a while, until the editors realized how unsexy it was to have their girl detective have a child and edited the girl out.
On the other hand, Nancy Drew, Judy’s main girl detective competitor, lives with her dad, a famous lawyer. Her mother is deceased. She has a housekeeper who cleans and makes dinner, but nevertheless cannot tell Nancy what to do or not do. It’s an Electra dream come true. Add to this: Nancy drives a roadster. She had no job, nor does she go to school (even during the Great Depression, when the books were originally published). She remains somewhere in the age of 16 to 18, during all 80 years of her published adventures.
It’s not hard to understand why one one--dimensional heroine would be more successful than another. Who would you rather be? Ever young, rich, and gleaming blond? Or lower-middle class, a carrot-top, and openly aging?
Different worlds
Nancy Drew is the Beverly Hills 90210 of 1930’s mystery novels. And personally, as a young, pimply adolescent I liked 90210, just as I liked Barbie a boobless 8-year old girl. On 90210, a television show that ran on Fox from 1990 to 2000, a group of bronzed, airbrushed, sculpted teenagers ran around dating each other (and not have sex…at least for a while), only to have their parents pop up every now and then to hug them for making “the right life choices.”
Even when characters like Brenda and Brandon (Shannon Doherty, Jason Priestley) were supposed to be poor, or even just middle class, they drove smoking-hot vintage cars and dressed like pop stars appearing in traffic court (short skirts, high heels but no gratuitous cleavage). Basically, the show was a commercial that sold abstractions like plastic surgery and dental whitening and The Great American Way.
I drooled over every episode. So why couldn’t I fall for Nancy Drew? How I wish it had been my mother’s influence. But at that age, I was into doing the opposite of whatever my mother suggested. She owned three Nancys, and 38 Judys. By all daughterly logic, I should be gushing over Nancy. Going back, I looked at the first passage of Nancy Drew’s first book, The Secret of the Old Clock.
“It would be a shame if all that money went to the Tophams! They will fly higher than ever!” Nancy Drew, a pretty girl of sixteen, leaned over the library table and addressed her father who sat reading a newspaper by the study lamp. “I beg your pardon, Nancy. What where you saying about the Tophams?”
Carson Drew, a noted criminal and mystery-case lawyer, known far and wide for his work as a former district attorney, looked up from his paper and smiled indulgently upon his only daughter. Now, as he gave her his respectful attention, he was not particularly concerned with the Richard Topham family but rather with the rich glow of the lamp on Nancy’s curly golden bob. Not at all the sort of head which one expected to indulge in serious thoughts, he told himself.
Solving the mystery
Hmm… Was my failure to relate due to the raging, overt sexism? I doubt this too. Both these book series are hugely dated. Judy’s pin money is given to her brother to buy a suit for his job—and she’s in the wrong for complaining. Nancy graduates high school but is never expected to go to college. It’s a hurdle, as reader, that you have to leap over, in order to enter a world of cashmere sweater sets and leafy Main Streets and characters named, no joke, Joy Holiday (The Yellow Phantom).
The idea of being a reader, I suspect, is the real clue (sorry for the pun) to this mystery. When it comes to television and movies, the more simplistic the character, the more appealing. Television happens to you. Barbies happen to you, which is why even though girls love them, they eventually pull off their heads and cut their blond hair and make Ken rape them.
Books, on the other hand, happen with you. Judy wasn’t just somebody I wanted to be, she was somebody I was, because I was inventing her as I read – how she looked, the color of her new felt hat, the smell of the dark cement room where she lay, helpless and bound by rope before attempting to enlist a dog to save her (The
Vanishing Shadow).
The more imperfect Judy was, the more she and I could actually merge, instead of remaining in a static, one-way relationship: me simply wanting to be her, the way I and every girl couldn’t help but want
to be Nancy.
Aspiring for a perfection you will never attain isn’t friendship. And books are friends, even ones with stubble-cheeked, dark-eyed villains and young vivacious heroines who – after a predictable plot, an overuse of adverbs, and several smart wardrobe changes – send those villains to jail, whimpering.
Le commissaire Madame vient d’être nommée commissaire (sic) aux Bureaux,
un district résidentiel mi-français, mi-animaux. Elle a vingt-quatre policiers
en uniforme et neuf inspecteurs sous ses ordres. Elle n’a pas encore eu le temps
de s’installer qu’une affaire difficile lui tombe dessus : un 10-22 au parking. Pas idéal quand on doit prouver à ses hommes qu’on est compétent pour ce travail.
Fashion Editorial
Research, top-secret sketches, hush-hush photos… the elements of a fashion show are like the conclusion of a police investigation in which each piece of evidence is only finally revealed on the runway, like a seasonal epilogue. A furious pace, oppressive wheeling and dealing, stress, anxiety… fashion doesn’t always have the rosy glow we attribute to it.
Whatever the reasons, Alexander McQueen made the sad choice to leave us. Genius may have gotten the better of this genius. But, on the catwalk, he will live on as one of the greats of fashion history.
Lars Pillmann
Gabriela Alexandrova
Veronique Leroy
Christophe Lemaire
Gaspard Yurkievich
Xuly Bet
Sabina Kasper
Balenciaga
Atsuro Tayama
Maria Luisa
Atsuro Tayama
shot by : GILAD SASPORTA
Music : Stephane Theret
editing : Jerome Walter
hair and makeup : AI CHO
Model : Paloma @ Trends
Front Row by Olivier Vaccaro.
Every season in Paris, in an ineffable cascade of all kinds of fabrics, designers and couturiers adorn the runways. Reviews of the best moments of couture SS10, men SS11 and women FW10.
Céline - FW10
who would have believed that Phoebe Philo would come up with so much creative energy today? Her second season is the epitome of freshness. The garment is impeccable. Her refined craftsmanship is the hallmark of a great house, à la française. The shoes take your breath away.
Yves Saint Laurent - SS11
Touching, altering a man’s wardrobe is a dangerous mission. If masculine codes aren’t rewritten, Pilati redefines them, thinking up novel structural dimensions for each piece.
Thimister – SS10
Who could forget the perfectly draped little dress in black silk jersey or raspberry satin which, Stendhal-like, totally enraptured young French actresses ten years ago? The great Thimister is back, breathing unhoped-for contemporariness into the couture industry which, alas, is dying.
Comme des Garçons – SS11
The cropped jacket. The must-have garment of masculine chic, Rei creates and recreates it on these rumpled-looking boys. Protecting the body, what will its future be in a world of ridiculed romanticism?
Hussein Chalayan – FW10
After a poignant homage to McQueen in a speech preceding his fashion shows from New York to Hollywood, Hussein sends us on a voyage across an America reborn via the European prism of style.
Photos Johnny Gembitsky
Dean Voykovich
Balenciaga
Marc Jacobs
Alexander Mc Queen
Dries Van Noten
Manolo Blahnik
Moschino
Comme des Garçons
Ellen Christine
American Apparel
Mr. Peter Copping
an interview with Peter Copping
by Sophie Lebas de Lachesnay
A graduate of Saint Martin’s School and The Royal College of Art in London, the British Peter Copping makes stops at the Houses of Christian Lacroix and Sonia Rykiel before becoming part of Marc Jacob’s team at Louis Vuitton, in 1995, where he oversaw the women’s collection. In March 2009, he joined the House of Nina Ricci as artistic director, with the desire to “get rid of” the brand’s “little girl” style. Let’s see how he did…
S.L. de L.: Now that you’ve done a capsule collection and two collections for the House of Nina Ricci, what was your biggest challenge in interpreting the label?
P.C.: Once I scoured the House archives, I found that the Nina Ricci woman turned out to be very feminine, ethereal and romantic but also, especially in the ’50s, quite determined in very tailored suits, straight skirts and three-quarter length sleeves in bright colors. The challenge lay in that woman’s change of temperament. I didn’t want any more of that romantic, fragile side…
I worked on the first capsule collection from that perspective, which proved to be a good balance between my work and the House’s codes. I like the idea of playing with silhouettes that are simultaneously ultra-feminine, glamorous and tough…
That direction became more pronounced in the last winter collection, with heavier fabrics like tweeds and wools. Even though I really like the idea of bringing back certain fabrics from one collection to the next by treating them differently, as a basis. For example, we used a silk crêpe on some suit jackets last summer, then used the same crêpe for long dresses this winter. I think that consistency in collections is very important. It really gives our customers reference points.
We see a certain nostalgia in the work of designers who often go back to the stylistic codes from their childhood. Your very “noirish” style has been reiterated over the years, throughout the various Houses you’ve worked for. Where does that fascination with the ‘50s — even the ‘40s — woman come from?
(Laughter.) I obviously wasn’t born during that period! No, I’m fascinated by the female silhouettes you find in Hollywood film noir from the ‘40s, like Joan Crawford, that I grew up watching. And it’s precisely that period that is, in my opinion, the strongest in the history of the label.
After twelve years with Louis Vuitton, how do you feel in this studio where two other artistic directors (Olivier Theyskens, Lars Nilsson) evolved over the past five years?
I really don’t feel pressured by the previous changes at Ricci. The most important thing to me is working on the garment with the staff, trying it on. I’ve had a lot of discussions with Emmanuel from Puig (ed. note: the Spanish group that owns Nina Ricci, Paco Rabanne and Comme des Garçons Perfumes, among others). I think we’ve found the right middle ground, and results confirm that. We have much more traffic in the boutique and the studio, which is a few floors above, because that affords us a real connection between our work and our clientele. My years at Vuitton were particularly interesting, since Marc Jacobs and I arrived at the very beginning of the launch of their ready-to-wear line. That experience — especially the cruise and pre-fall lines, which I’d been entrusted to oversee in New York each season — gave me a taste of the work I’m doing today, and I pretty much accept the spotlight that’s inherent in that job. In the end, it all happened very naturally. I’d also like to get involved in all the little details of the boutique for a more personal, warmer universe, like a living room. And why not work on a perfume concept, as well?
You’ve adapted your Vuitton campaign models to Madonna and Jennifer Lopez. Do you think it’s necessary to “sublimate” the work of the cuts and fabrics to celebrity images to exploit a brand’s image today? Or, conversely, do you find it more interesting to sublimate a girl-next-door with your designs?
I suspect celebrities are very important in communications today but I’d prefer to see my dresses worn by a young woman with whom I’ve first created a real exchange, rather than on a celebrity who’s not always comfortable with the garment and who doesn’t necessarily have the right style. They’re two totally different approaches.
People sometimes denounce the unhealthy relationship between the press and one’s advertisers. The House of Ricci only advertises its perfume. Do you feel it’s difficult to get magazine coverage without taking out ads in them?
We’ve had very good feedback from the press. But I think a good magazine’s style section does have a duty to find the right balance between the major labels, young designers or even vintage clothing, to make the choice that’s best adapted to its image. That’s what journalism’s all about. Unfortunately, that problem isn’t new and touches on all media.
So, the Ricci woman today is simultaneously determined and mischievous, always feminine… Has the little girl jumped overboard?
Yes, that’s done! That’s happening even beyond the clothes — in the hairstyles, the makeup, in the models we choose for our fashion shows. She’s more womanly, once and for all.
Above, from left to right, the “Winter Garden” collection, fall-winter 2010/11.
1) Belted moleskin coat with fake-fur cuffs.
2) Liberty print silk and black lace blouse and brassiere with tweed straight skirt.
3) Mesh and cashmere belted jacket, fake-fur cuffs, over a radzimir smock.
4) Bustier mini-dress in jacquard embroidered with tulle, organza and lace flowers.
5) Crumpled nylon “petals” trench coat.
Twin shotone
Markus Lambert
garlone jadoul
Kenzo
Vivienne Westwood
Olivier vaccaro
On Constructivism
Brooke Taylor and Miss Nana Aganovich present their third women’s collection in Paris. In a basement gallery, with twelve Stockman pieces in a semi-circle. At one extremity of that arch, stands a mini-tornado — a pipe placed on a pedestal with smoke billowing out of it, which is immediately sucked in by a fan positioned on the floor two yards away, affording the installation a swirling phenomenon. A stuffed donkey stands in the middle of the basement.
In Aganovich’s work, the absurd represents not only the opposite of reason in the usual sense. Their clothes are simply unusual. First of all, they’re cut for half-bodies, half-torsos, people with one arm, but always with an asymmetry adapted to the curves of the female form. Then, as you approach the silhouettes, you realize that the collars are detachable, that the pleated dresses have interchangeable pieces, that boleros are layered — or not — to finish the look. All these makeshift elements allow for color combinations that will coexist depending upon the artist’s mood — there’s baby pink, a very ‘40s orange, dull brown, hazy gray, a wine-color, a light purple marinade. There’s an elegant, contemporary silhouette with soft, rounded, feminine shapes.
The Garment as Act
So the garment no longer designates a subjective quality in response to the boring demands of current trends, but an invariantthat aligns itself within a sartorial tradition — luxury, savoir-faire, fabrics, inventive forms of patronage, successful color combinations. Its polyphony of ideas appeals to the wearer’s or, spontaneously, to the observer’s imagination. In this discourse among designers, conception and realization become the two faces of the world Aganovich invites us to enter today. Far from evoking a conceptual universe, the garment, in its innovation, becomes act; even if, in Aganovich’s universe, it’s post-conceptual.
Olivier vaccaro
maison Amys
Fred Rambaud
Marion Chambrette
Trench, 0044. Collier de chien, Helene Zubeldia.
Bibi, Mikaella Asssouline.
Raphaële Bidault-Waddington
Jean-Marc Avrilla
The Art Work Recovered
All the work does seem to be presented in the two galleries that the CNEAI1 has devoted to the group show, The Exhibition Continues (Echo). Yet nothing seems normal! Calling a contemporary art exhibition “normal” just isn’t done; abnormal seems more appropriate. Not from the viewpoint of normality, which doesn’t make much sense in the domain of artistic research called contemporary art; nor from the viewpoint of a phenomenon which, to be specific, would take on paranormal parameters.
The walls do hold a substantial group of paintings. Canvases on stretchers, to be precise. The formats are all different — squares, horizontal rectangles, vertical rectangles, triangles, perhaps even round canvases… Not exactly round, but certainly one oblong work with rounded extremities, like a skateboard.
Major Divergence
Sixteen invited artists2 and only two colors — a single white and a single black, both matte. The fist room has three black walls. The second, two black walls, two white walls and a central molding in white. The color of each canvas is identical to the wall it’s been hung on. A curious set-up because these sixteen artists certainly don’t all produce the same artworks.
How could Olivier Mosset, known for black circles on white backgrounds, ever create a painting similar to that of Noël Dolla, who is so focused on color in diverse forms that he actually creates abstract landscapes? How can anyone compare Robert Barry, who paints words on canvas in the same hue as its background, playing with the word’s disappearance into a painting, to Christian Robert-Tissot, who works in the Swiss Gute Form tradition and is adamant about the legibility of the words used in his titles? If we add Josh Smith, nothing makes sense, other than the culture of the name. Maybe that’s the thread that ties all these artists together — names and words. But that doesn’t apply to Stéphane Dafflon or Philippe Decrauzat, with their shapes lifted from the best science-fiction movies or kinetic art. Not to mention Evi Vingerling’s very concrete geometric shapes next to Ditte Ejlerskov’s stacked landscapes.
Monochromatic Crime
Reading over this list doesn’t explain why all these paintings have been painted over with black or white paint. Just one name leaps out of that listing and this curious situation — Claude Rutault. The definitions/methods man is, in fact, the creative mind behind this most recent monochromatic crime. He’s the only one capable of suggesting that a canvas or group canvases be repainted the same color as the wall on which they’re hung. If the notion was truly sparked by intuition, the radical nature of the final act is surprising.
An Unsettling Strangeness
Yet it was all premeditated. In Definition/Method #1723 (or D/M #172), on page 752, entitled “Forty-second Theme: Secondhand Goods,” Rutault specifies one of the possibilities for the existence and presentation of one of his works, in the case of collector X, who he calls the “caretaker.” “A caretaker who owns ten Picasso paintings could present them in a stack, with all the presentation possibilities inherent in them. The proposition may of course be combined with the D/M collection 5, which consists of repainting one work in the collection each year the same color as the wall on which it is hung.”3
At CNEAI, Claude Rutault has indeed repainted all of the artists’ works. But how does one explain the mirror effect doubling each painting — either at the nearest corner or on the opposite wall — as if reflected in a huge mirror that would cut the space in two, but through which the visitor can pass! Might Dan Graham do a few tricks here, too?
His name isn’t on the list. And closer observation of the dual works reveals slight differences on the painted surfaces. It’s also difficult to find your way around because the small cards posted next to each painting — usually bearing the artist’s name, title of the work, the materials used, dimensions and owner — have suffered the same fate. Meaning that they’re also solid black or white.
Nevertheless, it seems that one canvas in the shape of a thick skateboard may be a Stéphane Dafflon. On the surface of the first canvas, which is black, shapes outlined with masking tape (to ensure extremely neat edges) clearly appear as part of an underpainting. But its double — which is white, on top of it — is, on the contrary, immaculate! We become disoriented in this exhibition with a certain delight, as all the traditional indications we’re usually obliged to latch onto, one after another, elude us. Claude Rutault certainly wasn’t acting alone, otherwise the terms would have been clear.
Semantic Confusion
In the title, The Exhibition Continues (Echo), should we understand the “(Echo)” to be each canvas’ double? But “the exhibition continues”? Where and when did it begin? The missing player is Mathieu Copeland, now famous in Paris as “the void man.” The curator of Voids — a retrospective of empty exhibitions at the Centre Pompidou since 1958 and presented at the Kunsthalle in Bern last fall — he also organized a fairly unexpected Alan Vega retrospective at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Lyon last summer. Copeland is an exceptional curator, not due to the scale of his exhibitions but the subject treated or the particular manner in which it’s treated. A Spoken Word Exhibition brought together exclusively verbal work, made up of words and sentences that were read; in A Choreography Exhibition, the works consisted of movements performed by dancers.
So we clearly recognize one of the singular features of his curatorial work here — inventing a situation in which the combination of selected pieces goes far beyond a simple rereading of the artists’ work. Rather, he and Claude Rutault open a veritable digression within each artist’s body of work. His curatorial work truly falls within the domain of creation.
Omniscient Curator
Such an exhibition, given its radical nature —in both method and esthetic choices — is pretty rare. First of all, there is an obliteration of the paintings by Claude Rutault’s work, then the mirror trick, which is not a theatrical choice but a curatorial one… one of the essential undercurrents of this show. Those two approaches create a veritable narrative tension in which we profoundly feel the presence of all the artists’ works, where we are conscious of the group exhibition as a point of departure. Obliteration is an ambiguous term. It denotes disappearance by taking away, like the most well-known example, the De Kooning drawing that Robert Rauschenberg erased. But it also implies a covering up, as Rutault proposes.
The choice of the mirror is quite a gamble because it’s the response to that “cover up.” For each artist’s canvas that Rutault covers with the wall color, he offers us a canvas in the same format, blank to begin with, then covers it with the monochromatic color of the opposite wall. He has no need of theatrical scenery in such a project to compensate for a lack of initial conception, the methodological choices and awareness of the potential of Claude Rutault’s work are enough.
Besides, it would be more appropriate to talk about a “pause” rather than “obliteration.” This is indeed a pause for the viewer, not for the painting itself, which continues to exist underneath. It’s a form of continuum, in which past, present and future are ensured by that covering up. For Rutault, that pause concerns artworks that aren’t his because his are always to come — “on each new wall, a new painting is to be made,” he writes to Copeland.
Poetics of the Void
Charlemagne Palestine, one of the protagonists of the first version of this exhibition, at the Circuit and the Gallerie 1m3 — two exhibition spaces in Lausanne, Switzerland — formulated the “pausulation” notion, a neologism derived from the syntagm “pause in permanent undulation/evolution.” 6 Mathieu Copeland understood that completely when he organized that first exhibition, which was devised with neither beginning nor end, where a work entitled “One Million Years” by On Kawara was centrally placed.
But today, in the CNEAI’s two-room The Exhibition Continues (Echo), there isn’t simply the question of painting, even if the viewer is surrounded by black and white acrylic color, but of paintings and canvases — meaning that both the works of art and their support or medium is of no consequence in the end.
What does matter here is, first of all, the obliteration — the “cover up” in which the canvas melts into the wall, like the missive in Edgar Allan Poe’s short story “The Purloined Letter,” which is intentionally hidden on the mantelpiece in the minister’s office, carelessly shuffled between a few papers that happen to be lying around, like a “document of no value.” Then the repetition of passing the work back and forth between various artists, like the letter itself moved from hand to hand, which gives it its ultimate value. “The fact that the message was handed back and forth like that assures us of something that wasn’t at all evident to begin with — the knowledge that it indeed belongs to the dimension of language.” 7
Handing the letter and the canvases back and forth, a repetition of open thefts like the repetition used in the exhibition, Poe’s systematic 3-character scene — as with Mathieu Copeland, Claude Rutault and each artist here — is an indirect historical discourse like a kind of rereading of the artworks by the curator… Everything may appear similar in Poe’s short story and in the exhibition, if not for two essential differences. It’s not at all a question of high treason. Each of the protagonists, including the third actor, made up of the artists in “the original exhibition,” remains linked to the others by the thread of the method chosen — by the reciprocal agreement of the exchange — and conserves its strict place. It’s not a question of repetitive reflex either. Yet it is indeed a question of language and the ineffable dimension of the painting. But here it’s Claude Rutault’s method and Mathieu Copeland’s concept that frame the movement of the symbolic system in which the question of authorship is diffused and permeates every surface of the project.
Téhéran a été le terrain expérimental du projet utopiste et moderniste, “Cellular Metropolis”, de l’architecte américain Victor Gruen (1903-1980). Un projet commissionné dans les années soixante par Le Shah, et mis
en place par le régime islamique ces trente dernières années. Décryptage par Sara Kamalvand.
La ville s’est étalée indépendamment mais en contiguïté avec la nouvelle grille d’infrastructure routière, quittant la ville historique pour conquérir un nouveau territoire vierge. En effet, à chaque époque, le nouveau pouvoir a soit abandonné soit rasé le passé. Quand Reza Shah vient au pouvoir en 1941, il détruit la muraille et les douze portails Qajar, à peine construits un demi siècle auparavant.
Cette discontinuité urbaine est assez brutale, mais récurrente en Iran. Elle est à l’image des changements sociopolitiques du pays. La révolution de 1979, qui était un mouvement organique et sans leader, a vu des intellectuels et des scientifiques se militariser pour combattre contre l’impérialisme, pour les droits démocratiques et la justice sociale. Cette lutte est en processus depuis le début de l’histoire moderne avec la révolution constitutionnelle de 1906, reconnue comme le point de départ.
Les événements qui sont survenus en mai 2009 à la veille des élections présidentielles ont été le coming out d’une nouvelle génération en contestation. Après trente années de silence un nouveau cri pour le changement s’est révélé. Mais cette fois il ne s’agira plus de révolution sanglante. Mais d’une génération qui utilisera l’art et la culture comme arme de résistance et de renouveau.
Une culture qui vit en sous-terrain depuis trente ans dans un contexte urbain qui le mène à vivre ainsi. Effectivement les trois cents kilomètres d’autoroute intra-urbaine du plan de Gruen ont créé un paysage bétonné, un no man’s land où le corps est en aliénation avec l’espace. Ainsi la rencontre se confine dans les intérieurs. Un modèle urbain qui a tendance à déconstruire les communautés.
Résistance souterraine
Mais à Téhéran, la population a si bien résistée en créant une sous-couche, une vie cachée, un vrai underground. Il y a véritablement deux vies à Téhéran, celle du dedans et celle du dehors. Cette dichotomie est amplifiée par un régime théocratique qui depuis sa mise au pouvoir en 1979, inflige des lois insensées, secrètement enfreintes au quotidien. À l’extérieur, règne une ambiance de paranoïa généralisée, tandis qu’à l’intérieur, se cultive une richesse digne d’une civilisation millénaire. Cette résistance est due à la culture intrinsèque du jardin. En effet l’architecture traditionnelle en Iran est celle de l’enclos.
Vernissage clandestin
C’est ainsi au sein d’une schizophrénie collective et un décor urbain ultramoderne que ce déploie le monde souterrain de l’art à Téhéran.Depuis les élections contestées de juin 2009, qui ont bousculé le pays vers une instabilité et, peut être, une véritable reforme politique, l’économie chute dans une pénombre incertaine. Les banques font faillite, les usines ferment leurs portes… Mais il s’ouvre, au contraire, toutes les semaines, de nouvelles galléries d’art.
En effet, les vernissages clandestins du vendredi après-midi sont devenues un des derniers lieux de rencontres pour une jeunesse assoiffée de culture. Que ce soit le cinéma, la peinture, la photographie, le graphisme, ou la musique, l’art est en réelle gesticulation à Téhéran. Composée à 60 % d’une population qui a moins de 30 ans, cette ville est en train de produire des œuvres originales et inédites qui poussent les limites d’expressions. Une nouvelle génération est en train d’inventer et retranscrire simultanément son monde, au sein d’une culture ultra intériorisée où la limite entre public et privé est complètement embrouillée.
Teronto
RBW : By showing us in the previous pages of Tales, the hidden face of Tehran, its underground art scene that reminds us of the Prohibition years of the 30’s, you make a beautiful demonstration of the fundamental role of the Creative Class in the development of Tehran. It is she who is preparing, and even inventing the Tehran of tomorrow. But this Iranian population, of whom you are part of, travels, exiles itself, and creates “hors les murs”, in Paris, New York, Toronto, cities that are home to many Iranians. On this point I would like you to tell us about the prospective project you are preparing for Tehran.
SK : Between 2004 and 2006 I was assisting directly Hadi Mirmiran, the architect commissioned by the state to design a new masterplan for Tehran. With his team we came up with a fabulous proposal to rethink the capital through five ecological corridors that run through the entire city, on the traces of forgotten waterways, from the mountain to the agricultural plains. These five corridors are like five giant Persian gardens that restructure the city with water, an essential strategy for a metropolis of 13 million in the desert, and a direct response to Victor Gruen’s American model. Our project failed to continue after Hadi Mirmiran’s passing away in 2006. But it is a project that cannot be forgotten and deserves to become the base in continuing to imagine the future of this city. Indeed, I am working on opening a new dialogue with different actors, by placing Tehran in the middle of an international research lab on the city of tomorrow.
I recently finished a comparative study of thirteen cities for an exhibit called Hydrocity in Toronto, in which Tehran and Toronto were both part of. These two cities resemble each other in surprising ways. Both were planned in the fifties and sixties on the same modernist principles of the motorcity. In consequence the road infrastructure took over everything and extended the city on virgin land. This sort of urban model provoked the abandonment of the downtown core, but also disrupted brutally the relationship between the city and its geographic context. In Toronto giant ravines were abandoned or even buried, and the waterfront has been totally disconnected by highways. There is a necessity in Toronto, like in Tehran to rethink the city, through its geography and infrastructures, in the objective to create new porosities in a modernist context that deliberately separated all functions.
Eileen Sommerman & Alice Vergara
This and that
Now a singular figure in the art world, the curator was first an agent at the service of artists — a caretaker of their work, of their integrity and their meaning. The circulation of contemporary art presented him/her with an opportunity to climb the symbolic ladder to become a “maker of exhibitions” as an enviable model, or a “creator of exhibitions” as a generic horizon. It also increased the exhibition of artwork at huge events, where the public is informed of the name and intentions of the organizer-creator in the same way as the participants-artists. Which isn’t enough to bring viewers closer to art. In other contexts, we think about (and expect) the cross-disciplinary role the curator plays in generating and transmitting the experience and knowledge of art. One phase in increasing the status of the multiple functional and intellectual capacities of the curator is opened by the economic change in culture and education in a globalized world.
Annabelle Hagmann,
Photos Stéphane Chalmeau / Frédéric Delangle
Vanishing Architecture
Prehistory, antiquity, the Middle Ages… from Modern Times to the Third Millennium, the Vendée Historical Museum building erects a new bridge between regional culture and contemporary architecture…
A meadow floating on the horizon, a huge creature dozing in the Vendée pasturelands, breathing in time to its seasons, sometimes with very short hair, sometimes with hair that’s tousled, verdant and iridescent.
That faceted machine is truly disquieting — built like a stealth bomber, chiseled with sloping planes and supported by five hundred tons of steel.
A clean, sharp, gash cuts right through it, opening onto a wide staircase. You descend it to feel a presence then turn around — Oh, façade! Dazzling with light, gaping, open onto the river in the background. Keep going, enter the great, vast landscape, experience the hollow paths, emerge upon a monument within a monument — an object frozen in the background of the painting.
But what’s being whispered under that green coat? What’s the meaning of that rooting, of those lines? What’s the hollow path for, or this landscape within a landscape, if not to strangely evoke a vanishing?
Edifying History
In its active version, the one that’s staged and endlessly replayed like a bucolic drama.
It’s a museum of its own history — that of the Vendée — and a building-symbol, green and bronze, heavy and floating, eluding the codes of monumentalism to generate the delicate music of an odd site, the theater of a sinister battle in the Vendée. Ancient history that slumbers peacefully with a gash along its right side.
Wanted
by Reiko Underwater
« Nyons, sud de la France. La famille d’Amar c’est son infirmité. J’ai enquêté, remonté les pistes, cherché en musique. L’enfant fuit sa grande sœur qui veut le serrer dans ses bras à la sortie de sa garde à vue. Casse d’autos. Déambulations entre les chantiers, l’école, la rue et l’appartement hanté de mort et d’amour. En grandissant, les rêves deviennent plus flous et les désillusions se précisent. Parfois, entre le rêve et la réalité, les mots s’échappent et dansent comme le corps tremble en s’asphyxiant. Les nuits sont des impasses et Amar s’y engouffre en attendant l’Aurore. Puis, le temps qui s’emballe et la dernière page qu’on tourne. La fin du premier acte.
Amar l’adulte a pris le train pour Paris. Quand je le vois, je sais que son départ sonnera le nôtre à tous. En plus, personne ne l’attendait aujourd’hui. Sûre de rien, Noria sœur et mère dort dans cette chambre. Entre Nation et la gare de Lyon se joue la deuxième partie d’une histoire-choc. Une journée dans le parking des âmes. L’hôpital est un labyrinthe infernal. »
Par reiko underwater
Lorent Idir est un artiste aux multiples facettes. D’origine française
et algérienne, Lorent est né à Montreuil. Il étudie tout d’abord le cinéma,
puis découvre le slam ; il monte plusieurs groupes de musique avec son
frère jumeau, autoproduit leur album en 2007 ; fait beaucoup de scènes,
surtout de l’impro, et réalise même son propre court-métrage. Son livre
“Un nageur en plein ciel” vient de sortir aux éditions Rivages/Noir.
Chronicle of an Almost Perfect Crime
The Intrigue
That day, I received an anonymous envelope. Inside, the hand-written letter aroused my curiosity:
“All born of the same mother. Bastards. Childhood disturbed by edifying imaginations. Emerging from the same womb, each speaking an invented language, these consumerist energies joined around a substitute paternal figure to offer an unbroken, horrifying scream. That’s how the ties were formed that came to unite a community that fled across arid deserts of miserable decency.
“Forgetting the journeys of their predecessors outside Egypt, the flight takes place outside the world but always on the backs of dromedaries. Their prophets moved to the front and, following in the footsteps their mentor, huge breaths burst out to express what each of them felt bursting out of himself.
“Simultaneously pursued by various social services and institutions that were supposed to protect and support them, they advanced, never looking back and constantly rallying banished poets and paralytic esthetes around them, preaching an inaudible word into the ears of many.”
Was that a prophecy or evidence of a crime? Of course, I had to find out what this document was all about.
The Investigation
The case had to lead me somewhere, to Poitiers, to that place called Le Confort Modern.
Apparently people talked a lot there and my instincts told me that I had to find the answers to my questions there.
I take the train from the Paris-Montparnasse station. In Poitiers, at night, in winter. No one is on the train platform. Yet I let them know I was coming. I walk down the stairs and move toward the dark, deserted parking lot. Obviously. I spot a minivan and, even though the lights are off, I sense someone’s presence. I move toward the car. Indeed, someone was waiting for me. The door opens, not a word. I ask no questions, I make no attempt to see his face, I get in and let myself be guided.
We arrive at Le Confort Modern. A group of people are gathered in front of the entrance — a few wandering, disillusioned, faceless silhouettes. Do I really have to look at them? It seems to be an exhibition opening. I enter the space, I can’t make out much. Voices, certainly. Looks. I move forward and blend into the crowd.
At the exhibition entrance, golden, made-up eyes are on the look out, anxious. It’s a den, a sacred temple that the visitor is invited to enter and wander around in. An overhead light and thick smoke permeate the somber space, accentuate its strangeness and animate a twilight, never-before-seen atmosphere.
I busy myself at the bar, sip a Bloody Mary. And I wait… in that rather cosmic ambiance.
A lush, heterogeneous inventory of shapes and iconic elements — like a window displaying a proselyte divinity, depicting a disquieting, mysterious mythology — is presented to me. I could easily let myself be carried away but that’s not what I came for.
Further off, I make out a stage. A show is about to begin. That may elucidate my case.
The suspects
Several characters with obvious pseudonyms: La Verité / Guy Stranger / Glove / La Rééducation / Da Prophet / Heautontimoroumenos / Post Nose / Le Grand Bizarre.
The clues
The performance begins — a string of scenes in which each of them enigmatically appears in turn.
The intro reveals a large veil concealing our suspects. They’re shown in silhouette. The manifesto (the letter I received) is recited on the soundtrack in the background. I’m on the edge of my seat.
The veil opens like a curtain. Le Grand Bizarre appears and breaks into a slightly naïve baroque dance.
Guy Stranger follows. He plays a weird character teaching an incomprehensible course at a flip chart. He demonstrates something, but what?
After him, the Glove duo is on — one is endowed with a strident electric guitar, the other with a mike. The latter longs for love, relentlessly shrieking the same phrase. I’m also searching for some answers.
Le Grand Bizarre reappears, now nude with a cone on his face, like a megaphone equipped with a laser to target victims, as he hurls out pertinent, inoffensive insults.
La Rééducation follows — a futuristic metal duo bustling about in front of computers, emitting sounds of obsolete musicality.
Post Nose makes his appearance via Skype. We don’t really know his whereabouts. But he delivers a convoluted discourse. Mystery continues to abound.
Le Grand Bizarre comes back, now wearing a rectangular, striped suit of armor and carrying a guitar.
Da Prophet, like a kind of MC, acts out a musical bazaar.
Heautontimoroumenos executes a transcendent dance. Then Le Grand Bizarre’s band does a musical improv.
For the finale, Guy Stranger reappears — covered in earthworms and sitting in a bathtub — and recites a poem. He’s epitomizes putrefaction or an exquisite cadaver.
Intoxicating confusion. This experimental landscape is a work in progress; its intangible, fanciful, mysterious universe recounts a story without structure. Letting oneself plunge into an almost Lynchian universe. Understanding via empirical intuition and giving way to red magic.
So my questions remain open and no longer have any real importance.
I get back on the train.
sabina kangerud et Mathieu Cesarsky
whistletaste.blogspot.com
Death Valley
Michelangelo Antonioni’s Zabriskie Point (1970) is a realistic fiction film, a counter-culture story that tragically comes to life for lead actor, Mark Frechette.
Initially closer to a road movie than a detective story, Zabriskie Point is nevertheless a film noir via its uncompromising look at late ‘60s North America. The investigation lies in its social reality. Shot at the very beginning of the following decade, without the hindsight necessary to analyze it all, it’s more of an interpretation, despite the film’s truthful account of that era. The deliberate casting of nonprofessional actors, unconventional sequence shots, a committed discourse and the obligatory original soundtrack (Pink Floyd, The Grateful Dead, Jerry Garcia, The Youngbloods…) make it a work of unequivocal modernity.
(In)quest
The story of Zabriskie Point revolves around the absurd. Mark, the main character, witnesses the murder of a student by a policeman in the course of student demonstrations in Los Angeles in 1969. As he himself is armed, he flees aboard a stolen plane and flies over the desert. He becomes the ideal murder suspect. There’s nothing exciting about the chase that ensues; the investigation is dealt with quite randomly in the film. The interest lies rather in Mark’s flight, which finally turns out to be more of a quest than an escape. An encounter as lovely as it is improbable between the persecuted hero and Daria, a young woman longing for the sensory, ends by introducing the second location. An amorous parade between an old Buick and an airplane in Death Valley.
Parallel Between Two Worlds
On one hand, we have Western society — Los Angeles, the student movements, race riots, repression and its boiling points, all shot in a quasi-documentary style with a hand-held camera and police sirens blaring in the background. On the other hand, a world populated with the ideas of lost, anti-establishment young people, across mind-blowing wide shots of the desert, where esthetics are praised and Pink Floyd’s music hypnotizes. A gap in the guise of a scene at the height of its protagonist’s despair.
The Italian director’s vision of the United States remains very clichéd and reductive, not without a certain irony, almost a caricature. It denounces everything — from violence to the lack of culture, from arbitrary arrests to consumer society, all the way to the paranoia, and panic it engenders, of a generation that falls victim to its own innocence.
Hallucinosis
As if to reinforce that impression of two totally opposed universes, the reality of the facts is supplanted by phantasmagorical scenes that punctuate the character’s quest for the absolute. One orgiastic sequence in the desert propels us into the nitty-gritty of the sexual revolution. And the inevitable scene in which, dumbfounded, we witness consecutive explosions of all the symbols of a consumer society smashed to pieces. A fireworks display demolishing anything “superfluous” to smithereens. That unprecedented finale was to precede the film’s original last scene — an airplane trailing a banner emblazoned with the words, “Fuck you, America,” which was censored by Louis F. Polk, then president of MGM.
Zabriskie Point’s poetry essentially resides in that mélange of pessimism in conjunction with an irrefutable estheticism.
Tabloid Headlines, From Fiction to Reality
Mark Frechette, who was discovered by a talent scout and immediately cast by Antonioni, was very quickly caught up in a certain reality of the situation. From the streets to the location, from film to sect, from sect to tragedy, events mirroring the film itself are interconnected in a kind of novelistic vortex. Once shooting was completed, Frechette’s love affair with actress Daria Halprin led him into The Family sect, led my musician Mel Lyman — a cult with ideals similar to those of Charles Manson, but minus the violence.
In August 1973, Mark Frechette and two other acolytes rob a bank not far from the sect’s refuge. The clan’s escape ends with the death of one of his accomplices. Despite the fact that his cartridge was empty, Frechette was arrested, convicted of murder, and was sentenced to fifteen years in prison. He was found dead in the Massachusetts Correctional Institution gym on September 27, 1975, asphyxiated by a barbell. His death was ruled accidental.
Tim Simenon ne nous avait pas habitués à autant de rayonnement.
À l’écoute de l’album coproduit par Gui Boratto, architecte
et musicien brésilien, les sons cosmiques et plutôt éclairés
de “Back to Light” fascinent. On se laisse glisser sur une vague
céleste, débordant de flots de sons mélodiques et enchantés…
Par reiko underwater
