De chlore et de rosé

Images of insouciance and indolence flash by with a strange perfume. Drowned in a blazing sun, our gaze wavers between voyeurism and obsession. Everything becomes saturated: colors, sounds, smells. But something’s not right. It’s a perpetual vacation where, despite the horizon as far as the eye can see, you’re suffocating under the weight of anticipation. Just as when you sink into water and the pressure increases, your eardrums bend and eventually rupture. It’s a silent warning of things to come, both personal and on a much larger scale. Time seems to stand still. We’re in that place where the mountains meet the sea so abruptly that snorkelers go into syncopation.