Allongée sur les pelouses, appuyée sur les coudes, les bras picotés d'insectes, je guette l'ascension du soleil.

Je connais chaque mètre carré dans un rayon d'un kilomètre, c'est le confinement, ce sont les jours redonnés à la nature.

Les corolles s'ouvrent et se ferment en un ballet éphémère restitué en autant de tableaux.

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Anne-Marie feeds on her travels, and if her painting recreates the purple maples of Kyoto,

for me it is an ocean, a fire, a dazzling, a palpitation,

I can't wait to appropriate the colors.

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"The autumn leaf blown by the wind in monotonous circles falls swirling ...

"Ritournelle of our childhood, homage to the poet of all poets, Verlainian landscape.

Golds and purples are set ablaze on a black ground saturated with water.

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March, somewhere a saxophonist repeats his jazz tune over and over again. A little dress of my sixteen, faded pale yellow becomes TURTLES.

An unfinished test with a cream background, improbable and long buried, becomes VERLAINE.

I re-color RAINBOW, while BOURRASQUES stands out as the calm and universal drawing.

April, I need flowers! Within a kilometer, I immortalize the lawns carpeted with BOUTONS D'OR. At the corner of a street, blazing, I shoot L' ARBRE WITHOUT NAME. Search within yourself and find materials right around the house.

June, at my painter friend's house, I linger in the studio, the Kyoto maples explode in FRAGMENTS. Then I escape, get on my bike and continue my roadbook through a village far to the north, scanning the shutters and straining my ears with lots of INDISCRETIONS.

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I like to say: "I set up my collections like writing a novel."

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"J’ai été élevée comme ça, par une maman folle de couture et de fantaisie, qui m’a dès mon plus jeune âge initiée aux courses dans les magasins de tissus, aux jeudis autour de la table de la salle à manger, à découper et adapter nos patrons Vogue ou Burda."

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Emotional , UTOPIA sprang from my pastels, impulsive restitution of an exhibition last winter.

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 Clutter of dark purple roses that we imagine old, precious, a little like this charming furniture of the eighteenth century for writing, and reserved for ladies.

Chiffonnier or hairdresser, all is elegance and coquetry.

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Like a window illuminated behind a pink neon, COTTAGE FUSHIA diffuses its haunting and psychedelic energy, overheated

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Evasion at dawn to the theater of greenery along the Seine.

On the granite terraces devoured by HERBES FOLLES, I spread my swatches, I invent my UTOPIA. Elegant listeners pose on the PALETTE DU PEINTRE, in MURANO, COTTAGE or CRAZY BLOOM printed dresses, in blouses sown of PAVOTS. Silence and BONHEUR DU JOUR, the PHILARMONIE Recital will begin.

The storm is rumbling and getting ready for its big laundry, tonight other elegant women here in the arena of this little Prieuré will dance a furious FOX TROT.

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Frieze of climbing flowers, hoisting their golden yellow corolla, seeking the light in the dark night.

Delicate as rag paper, purple corollas shudder.

Mythology of the artist attached to his old palette,