of Gilles Berquet
The blow up sessions
Isolated always advance.
All the garden surrounds her.
She forgot her house, her sorrows,
- I was mistaken about the tree.
She kisses the dog
and begins to crawl.
Often, Isolated leaves a piece of lunch.
She cherishes a certain branch,
collects mysterious clues
Flush with the grass.
Sometimes, very high
on little knotty legs,
with pointed mouth she lifts her head;
Bangs starting at the ears stop at the birth of her lashes
She lives in the midst of trees,
without knowing anyone.
Looking right, left,
But there, next to her,
a large fly buzzing,
and this fly, the sheer size,
traces around her large circles.
And always this same fly around her,
then landed on a finger;
by far, it appears as a black ring
slipped onto white skin.
Isolated she collects everything she finds
on the ground and puts them carefully,
good or bad,
in her small bag,
The rotten will be for the dog.
The photographer follows her without being too daring
help, always feeling a bit worried
The presence among these treasures
spread in the foam.
Logs, bark, grass, ground, dog,
fly are mixed, married, confused.
Isolated would have liked to embrace the leaves,
the trunks, the dear flowers.