Childhood is that moment of naivety where magic, imagination and poetry nourished by tales and legends intertwine. Their fantastic illustrations have greatly contributed to my imagination. Childhood is also haunted by the misunderstandings and concerns of an adult world often perceived as dark and threatening.

Composing my view in a succession of diptychs is a way of presenting this intertwining. Fear and poetry are embedded in the viewer's gaze, leaving him free rein to recompose the internal image of his own childhood. Thus he can move from one space to another, free to recast – if necessary or for pleasure – his own story and to rediscover this perception of the world, and to reflect on that which he shows.

In the images the child is at the same time a spectator, doubtful, worried, lost and curious. She gets lost in a fantastic natural setting, sometimes with a threatening animal appearance or sometimes foggy. The plant decoration of a strong graphic design is dry, but the wet element is tangible. This atmosphere reinforces the distressing and enigmatic character of the adult world. But it also recalls the capacity of our gaze to transform it to make it more acceptable, as would the thought of a child who resorts to magic to soothe his anxieties.

Forest which once sheltered our murmurs,

Tell me ! Tell me !

Did I experience it, or did I read it?

How ?

Memories and laughter, of this vibrant idyll,

Nothing is more?!

How ?

Enchanting nights and radiant promises,

Nothing is more?!

Did I experience it, or did I read it?

Anger consumes me and the memory obsesses me.

Couldn't you spare me, universal Pain?!

Hate crushes me and I want everything to die!

How, my legend, can you be so ugly?

Did I experience it, or did I read it?

My mind twists and every day I wait.

But nothing comes.

My eyes blur in every place I watch,

But nothing sees.

Have I lost it, or have I read it?

And since nothing is more and since nothing is life,

From my trembling fingers

and my soul in black

From my bleeding heart

and my bruised hands

I close the story,

Like one finishes a book.

Haunted places. Haunted by History. History from here, History from before.

I enter it, I wander there, a ghost seeking lost souls,

Souls that hide, that I feel, there, that I listen to.

Caught up in the past, I guess, I glimpse, I sense and I feel.

I sit down, my eyes wander.

They approach, appear and take me away.

I follow them.

Presences that sweat, that pray, that cry and murmur.

I feel.

Around me voices swirl, tell me and show me.

I cry too.

Meetings, elsewhere, here, distant and so present.