Pas de deux.
Marguerite Waknine| N° d'inventaire | 23721 |
| Format | 15 x 21 |
| Détails | 60 p., notebook. |
| Publication | Angoulême, 2020 |
| Etat | Nine |
| ISBN | 9791094565667 |
Like so many episodes spinning the texture of a story, it would be a series of small scenes, where each of them would have to maintain as best it could a fragile balance, to the point of appearing only in the form of sketches, of remaining within these limits, for fear of going too far and sinking into the heaviness of completion, the pitch of exhaustion. As if it were above all necessary never to freeze in this or that posture, ways of composing a long story that would not have quite begun yet, while remaining eternally without epilogue.
The line is thin, certainly, and we have scenes here that hang by a thread (as they say); situations whose outcomes seem uncertain, even unknown, on the edge (as they still say). However, as in all stories, there are characters, events, most of which fall within the scope of an eroticism that Georges Bataille could have defined: Happy passion itself involves such violent disorder that the happiness in question, before being a happiness that can be enjoyed, is so great that it is comparable to its opposite, suffering.
Thus, the pleasure of naked bodies offering themselves to passion is mixed with brutal animalities: erect centaurs or multi-headed beasts, grafted onto bouquets of tentacles, to name only those. Small theaters of cruelty as well as voluptuousness, where embraces are both kneaded with pain and desire, all these precarious and delicate stories, all these drawn scenes would thus have the audacity to take place at the very place where the ignorance engendered by all our all too common ways of envisaging, looking, apprehending and knowing is revealed.
Like so many episodes spinning the texture of a story, it would be a series of small scenes, where each of them would have to maintain as best it could a fragile balance, to the point of appearing only in the form of sketches, of remaining within these limits, for fear of going too far and sinking into the heaviness of completion, the pitch of exhaustion. As if it were above all necessary never to freeze in this or that posture, ways of composing a long story that would not have quite begun yet, while remaining eternally without epilogue.
The line is thin, certainly, and we have scenes here that hang by a thread (as they say); situations whose outcomes seem uncertain, even unknown, on the edge (as they still say). However, as in all stories, there are characters, events, most of which fall within the scope of an eroticism that Georges Bataille could have defined: Happy passion itself involves such violent disorder that the happiness in question, before being a happiness that can be enjoyed, is so great that it is comparable to its opposite, suffering.
Thus, the pleasure of naked bodies offering themselves to passion is mixed with brutal animalities: erect centaurs or multi-headed beasts, grafted onto bouquets of tentacles, to name only those. Small theaters of cruelty as well as voluptuousness, where embraces are both kneaded with pain and desire, all these precarious and delicate stories, all these drawn scenes would thus have the audacity to take place at the very place where the ignorance engendered by all our all too common ways of envisaging, looking, apprehending and knowing is revealed.