Bernard Merle

It is a limping gait that stumbles with each step against the hazardous stone of the path.

Spotting the stars, I stumble on the pebbles, eyeing them too much, I lose my way north, turn around, start another route, then no then if ...

In short, dancing like this from one foot to the other between a desire for flight and the melancholy of loss, we take on the appearance of an old lame man who has worn his hip by trampling, desperately wanting to hold back what will disappear or to give substance to what is not yet, we make a flickering painting.

I ended up accepting it as it was: "repentance" and hesitation became its raison d'être.

The impetuous impulses endlessly contradicted by a glance back over the shoulder finally find - not always! - their syncopated rhythm of tango.

A "hesitant determination" of sorts. Perhaps...