Somewhere between genesis and the poet, there is man… and the sea, this vast sandpit that we frenetically bucket out to build our churches, synagogues and mosques, our walls, bunkers and monuments, as it is true that we love carnage and death. With all these grains of folly, it is our clepsydra that is emptying.
A few bubbles are bursting at the surface of a small pond which, this april 2020, is delivering its vernal creatures. The still cold waters remain clear and in some places I can catch a glimpse of the bottom coated with dead leaves. Soon the larvae will be nymphs and the dragonflies will take their … Read more
slideshow and pictures How many beliefs, how many hopes, how many chimeras prolong this segment that underlines the infinite?Christian Peter approaches landscape photography by unfolding his own Ariadne’s thread in the tangle of a human presence whose signs seem elliptical. He builds an iconography in which the horizon line stretches at the center of the … Read more
A song by Joan ArmatradingA house too big for solitudeUnexpected visit from my alter egosStormy debates and stupid gamesMockery exalts reprieveSelf-portraits beside myself
slideshow When it catches sight of its reflection in the window, the blackbird defends its territory against an intruder that it doesn’t recognize, and the struggle triggers a curious dance. This particular bird appeared at my window in December 2018, and came back to face its rival for more than a month. As legend has … Read more
slideshow On a bridge that spans the Rhine, I often go and gaze at it, sometimes photograph it. Seeing it thus transformed by what is woven upstream or by the mood of the sky conjures up a scenography that fascinates me.
On either side of the road, black and white rectangles censor the landscape and conceal the promise of a visual and artistic harvest. On that day, under a leaden sky, the scheme could begin, devised as a diversion of backgrounds. Two viewing points, two focal depths add together their transparencies… Abstracting forms.
Consigned to the dustbin of history, repudiated factories are expecting garbage collectors in a cathedral-like silence.As an industrialist, I thought they were fiery … I came back just in time to abstract from them these photographic paintings, sheltered from shadows and memory.