Anne Martine Parent composes a landscape shaped like a prism with ephemeral splendors.
Since childhood, a woman advances, gets lost, metamorphoses until she disappears, her feet in the sand, her hair in the sun, her hands open, her body tired. The intimacy of her abandoned room explodes with mystery and reveals in a low voice the story of her joys and pains.
In a tight network of poetic echoes, Anne Martine Parent interweaves silhouettes and ghosts, constellations, forests, sandy cities and ruined beaches. The mended skins of dead leaves, the betrayed and dislocated female bodies, which unravel and recompose themselves, become so many places of repair, dazzling horizons that we build while holding our breath.
