The eyes without a face

28 février 2010



It is me, and yet it isn’t… 


You’re surfing the web, your kids are gone, your husband’s taking a break from the Olympics’ (… your husband’s asleep).


You’re surfing the web, feeling idle, knowing you should be writing, or cooking,  or cleaning something, but more that you should be writing. Your fingers are twitching and you have this want in you, this hungry need for words. Except that the words escape you, maybe because they are too scary, or too sad, or too true. Maybe because this that you’re writing, you’ve read it over and over to the point of nausea and exhaustion, to the point where your fingers cry ink.


Sometimes, it’s nice to take a break from the words. To think empty, blank, to think white. The house is suspiciously silent from the lack of children, you turned the music off, there is nothing left but the strong wind. A wind forcing itself on the house, the trees, making the sun’s light sharper by bringing dark clouds randomly under it. 


You know you plan to write something about last Monday. It’s slowly forming itself in your head, you’re not sure yet, is it in French, is it in English? It’s about people and connecting. It’s about sitting on a stool in the dark, with well chosen light, staring in a camera lens. It is dark in there too, but you’re not looking for light, you’re looking for an eye, for his eye. You’re not sure what he sees, or what he wants, hence you don’t know what to give. 

It’s unsettling. It’s powerful as well.


You’re surfing the web, trying to make the words come, and then it hits you. This image, that is definitely not you. Or is it?

There was a first result, pure, white, blue, already it was you and it wasn’t. You’d received it by email, surrounded by care. You were warned it was there. You were unsettled, again, but found that you liked it, and then that you loved it.


You were warned it was there out in the world, and that a stranger was working on it. You looked for his work, on the web, and found things he did that you liked, and others that you didn’t. You went on his facebook, on his flickr, you know how to work the web, you should have found it sooner. 

Today, you hit his website, and found a part of yourself on the home page. 

This image, this piece of you came violently on the screen. It was unannounced and a few days old. It was unexpected in more than one way. It was a shock.


You hated it, at first. It wasn’t immaculate anymore, and it was crying ink. And then you realized it wasn’t yours to own. You had both given it to someone and given it up. 

You’re not sure what you really think yet, it might take a while, (but maybe you do like it terribly). It might take meeting the stranger who didn’t know how sad you were with your words, and how true both his work and that of his partner were of you today.


2 commentaires

  1. Thanks Blandine… and sorry :-/

  2. Art is art, nothing to be sorry about ;)

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