of Anne Catherine Becker-Echivard
The fish of acbe do not look at the ground.
They play there. They play. They play with us.
They place us into these pieces.
Parts in an act, in a photograph.
Light comedy. But the boulevards that acbe uses are not always comedic.
The lives intersect there, are looking, are looked for, and are lost there sometimes.
A coin. A paltry euro at the bottom of our pocket, but it can offer the warmth of a hot coffee.
Pieces assembled in a strange marriage of burlesque and the depth of a fish on roller blades.
Piece of butcher when a solitary alcoholic bleeds out his life in front of us.
Piece of artillery when acbe denounces the factory, the daily newspaper.
But it does not denounce.
Precisely it does not denounce.
The fish show, illustrate, offer, open.
The fish of acbe play with distance, restraint, coldness.
To put us in place, our place.
It is up to us to imagine the dialogues, or to prefer silences.
For us to dream before, to fear afterwards.
Let's look at the smiles in these photographs, deformed mirrors, shifted.
To shift to better see the magnificent success of acbe.
To better see the sentiments, the sensations or even more painful, their absence.
Certain images show the suffering, the solitude. But look closer at the detail, this bit of irony which... extremis diverts despair.
German romanticism rescued by French lightness.
The funny images, are never only funny.
The sad images, are never only sad.
There is always something else.
acbe directs this theatre she has built, from scenario to lighting, wardrobe, decoration, she puts us into the scene and the fantasy, its sincerity, its love striking the three blows.
The curtain opens.
On something else.