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.
