Le château I met him incidentally, and this accidental meeting was the beginning of a series of accidents. Desires of the unknown, emotional drift, enchanted machine of desires, illusory or mad, it is this epic fantasy, this tale, which I tried to grab in this series of shots. The images have begun to arise one summer night, when, distracted by the twinkling stars, I discovered a secret and magical place called The Castle, and where, by a strange conjunction, I made an almost fatal fall, which failed to take my life. Just before the accident, I had mysteriously overturned the frame of the objective, creating a skyline overturned diagonally as an oraculaire announcement of the fall, close to death experience. That evening, my blood ran on the volcanic, ancestral rocks, gathering an extraordinary mythology: that of the majorquines mountains and of the talayotique rocks. Fortunately, my arm, very largely cut off, was sewn up and ready for healing process. During the accident, Arthur filmed the traces of the blood left across the rocky pathways. It resembled a sacrifice. That’s how I set to established myself in this indecipherable place, the doors of this palace which have been closed for a very long time, and in which I lived this passion, limitless love which confused my life. It was Arthur’s childhood, his Goldens Rock, and his Wild Palms, strange spirits, wild nature and a red eclipse, a history of family made of worrying mysteries in which I stumbled it without any knowledge, leaving my certainties for the desirable the unknown. In the middle of this spellbinding nature; with its psychotropic flowers, were force-fed with sublime colours, and winds hitting musical bells which Arthur had hung, here and there, in the castle of his childhood. During this trip, I caught pictures as if i had a lasso of truth, taken between the fever of my wound and loving madness. I let the shutter release, ready to pick up these instants of another world, as the polygraphe reveals the thoughts of its subjects. I had told nobody of my circle, and I did not know if I would survive these initiations. Lost in this labyrinthique space, with Arthur whom I knew barely, I practiced ceremonies in order to avert the fate. I invoked Mary-Madeleine as my protector, I immerged in rituals, leaving doors opened for white spirits to liberate me from evil which scared me.As a doll which lost equilibrium, I gave free will to my imagination, nourished by the magical dominant features of the castle. Thirteenth virgin, captured princess, oriental eroticism, Scarlet Woman, woman warrior, these living beings had me one by one giving me the force of healing. The photograph coming as witness, definite proof – silver photography- of the existence of this initiatory vertigo of passion. Arthur seemed not to print on film, intangible figure, elusive character – fruit of my imagination? – Lucifer? – or an angel triggering this dangerous loss of consciousnes. Later, I thought of the film Last Tango in Paris, where whom the hero claimed «I am Nobody», and where the young Maria Schneider runs away, and seemed to have dreamed about her love story. The photographs gave body to the soul, frontiers with these dimensions which I crossed, fixative of our love. These photographs make me think of ectoplasme, making ghosts appearing, and worlds of beyond. Mysteries continues when I learn that the place contains the magnetic waves of Aleister Crowley, and the secrets of Arthur III, who opened with Howard Carter in 1922 the tomb of the pharaoh Tout‚nkhamon. I understand that these photographs are only the entrance towards a new infinite world: the photographs are only the drafts of this discovery. Was I in danger? Had I broken the prohibited by capturing inside this secret castle? Everything was bigger than me, exceeding me, as the unconcealed heroine of a evil tale. Was this blood on the rock indeed an accident, or was I intended to be sacrificed? Had I tilted into an unreasonable delirium ? was it all a fiction or mere illusion? Indecipherable love, who was Arthur? I returned to Paris and left the photographs for a long time without daring to touch them, I had to protect these photographs because they contained the soul of our love. We accomplished printing within protective rituals in coloured delirious chromatic ways (the red of fire, the blue of waters). But in the course of printing, a strange thing happened – a new accident. And this accident was another bloodbath once again, this time not on rocks but on white sheets, the sheet of the virgins? Facing this wonderful continuity, I reached the writing of this myth by printing it into a magical book to counter the possible baleful tries which I received near me.