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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