We have, I think, two parallel lives.
The first by day, for all to see, the second, more mysterious, at night, made up of dreams, nightmares and insomnia. From these moonlit dreams, unknown lands open up to us. Sometimes I return to wander in palaces whose corridors I know, outside the truth where unconscious invention borders on psychoanalysis populated by chimeras.
My obsessions spin around in my head and haunt my sleepless nights. By clinging to these fantasies, I’ve built up a collection guided by automatic writing to transcribe this subconscious into the present and turn the dream into reality.
The Mirage floor lamp, an undulating plaster column whose asymmetrical curves are sheltered by a straw lampshade flying from its own soul waves. Erotic symbols, snakes slither into our subconscious, here transformed into the Serpentine chair. Mythological in appearance, two bronze reptiles intertwine to welcome a nebulous passer-by in its studded leather straps. Four burnished bronze cobras intertwine to support a veined marble slab, forming the Hédoniste coffee table, an Alexandria quartet where Justine could lose her mind.
Strange figures reminiscent of Easter Island or Aztec pyramids, white plaster ghosts crouch on the floor to transform themselves into Taboo libraries, or bloom cactuses in their brains emptied of dark ideas.
Observed by the Narcissus mirror with its ying and yang profiles of gilded wood, infinitely reflecting their string-pierced gazes, hanging like trophies from a dream key. An eternal golden circle rises into the sky, carrying with it two white chalk horns of plenty, an illuminated aroma that forms a Vertigo chandelier.
On the floor, a mouse laughs at seeing herself so pretty, from her dark bronze form, she lights herself by candlelight. The fish tries to imitate her, almost choking on its candle, more used to water than fire. Its greenish scales, bronze with golden reflections, desperately call out to its mate, the Ostrich, which sports the best chasing, protecting its amber egg with a grey-green feather. She loses her head despite her incandescent flame. A black-and-white ceramic horse sticks its head out of the wall to light up our misty anxieties like a lantern in the twilight. The Pegasus sconce can fly away. The dream comes to an end and I’m carried off in a wild rodeo on the blond-wood Buffalo buffet, trying for the last time not to fall, waking up astonished in my crumpled sheets.