La Femme 100 Chambres

It is a woman, alone, in a room. But is she, really? Hard to say: she glides from one image to the next, slipping away as soon as we come near. Her mischievous silhouette imprints itself on an antique doily, then reappears, in profile, in an enigmatic collage. She escapes from a photo shoot, leaving in her place only a patch of bright light, then lies down for a moment on a limestone rock that she reinvents as a bed. There she is, dancing: quick, let us catch the wild movement of her hair, on a sheet of paper left a few minutes in the sun. Through the keyhole, there she is again: is she grimacing in ecstasy or in sorrow? Does she even know herself? Look, a clock: she insists, yes, even time is fungible in reverie. In this game of hide-and-seek between shadow and light, between the image and its simulacrum, she plays, and invites us to play with her. And to play with the very idea of reality, which is, perhaps, the only subject of photography.