of Eva Ionesco
You have bitten into the apple of forbidden childhood games when the greenness of innocence has gone...
Maybe I am miss-taken?
Cross my heart and hope to die, if I lie I will go to hell!
However here is the dreamlike atmosphere of children’s toys, like when Alice goes to the other side of the looking glass, the toys become metamorphosed into something else.
We are in the company of something strange, but familiar: a dwarf – one of the seven of course – dust-off an old map and we invite you on our voyage. Traveling in this world, which appears sometimes familiar, and sometimes strange. We advance in this ever-changing gallery: a blonde puppet, borrowed in the past, we joyfully combed it’s hair, now wild and savage, a proud reminder of a childhood to re-discover.
We are thrown into this world of childhood toys. Innocent and complicated, they have the power to let us travel against our fantasies and our imaginations; these are the wrong sort of toys, those that trap and limit our play to what they have made us used to. In one go they are changed: like the small horse un-wrapped and out of it’s box, shaded by the knight on his back and waiting to be allowed to be free, or like batman or his equivalent hidden by a white shroud, or tangled in black ropes that leave him powerless.
We are thus emerged in the worrying strangeness of a world that we thought was familiar – that of the toys and games of our childhood – and that when revealed in its complete mystery, bigger and more complicated that we supposed. This space and time recall to us with a singular force and poetry, because it is something from multiple spaces and times, that of all childhoods, as well as all the dreams and nightmares that come at this time in our lives.
Every step or perhaps every picture of this journey that can be worrying can make us think that it is immobile voyage. We are like cavaliers, confronted by a laser beam of adverse images or perhaps the skeleton of a dog howling at the moon. Time is in suspension, every toy has chosen its pose under our now conscious regard.
Though we never know whether we will ever drive that beautiful American convertible, towards which star the astronaut suspended in space is heading, which target the machine gun is aiming at, to which ball the white dressed princess is heading, and what place the caped pilgrim will explore.
The little giraffe is saddened whilst Alice – comes back through to the other-side of the looking glass.
Poet, member of l’Académie Mallarmé