Hypersoleils

A gentle and patient travelling camera accompanies sunrise on the Père Lachaise cemetery, and by continual metamorphosis of the visual material shows a break through crossed by a chromatic life inexhaustible variations. A film born from Léos Carax's Holy Motors, with whom I collaborated on a music of Jean-Benoît Dunckel.

"Mountains are falling, and there's nothing we can do about it. And even if we have the means to rise to their height to admire them, to surpass those inaccessible peaks where many explorers lost their lives trying to gain the privilege of overcoming them, the mountains will continue to fall as they continue to rise. If Mount Blanc falls, it also rises."

A few kilometres from Ajaccio, the burnt earth gives in to the weight of colour. The ground opens up and frees pictorial energies that take over the sky. I see the horizon disappear, but I keep it in my sights. The train continues on its way...

In Le Livre d’Image, Jean-Luc Godard recycles existing images (films, documentaries, paintings, television archives, etc.), quotes excerpts from books, uses fragments of music. The driving force is poetic rhyme, the association or opposition of ideas, the aesthetic spark through editing, the keystone. The author performs the work of a sculptor. The hand, for this, is essential. He praises it at the start. “There are the five fingers. The five senses. The five parts of the world (…). The true condition of man is to think with his hands. Jean-Luc Godard composes a dazzling syncopation of sequences, the surge of which evokes the violence of the flows of our contemporary screens, taken to a level of incandescence rarely achieved. Crowned at Cannes, the last Godard is a shock film, with twilight beauty.

Salammbô is an alchemical game between my images, Othman Louati's music vibrating in Noé Nillni's trumpet and Gustave Flaubert's text carried by Julien Ribeill's voice.

For Jean-Luc Godard, with all the admiration and affection of Jacques Perconte and Nicole Brenez. December 3, 2020.

Experiment in abstraction through the discovery of bodies and of the senses: six moments in a story of a meeting. The story of two (or three) bodies. Stigmas, decompression, red. Black. Several days. Several short stories. Green. Yellow. Abstract pornography. This movie is the first movie completely based on psychovisual compressions. The film is the story of the relationships between forms and the image in which they are registered. It is a story of meetings. It is a sulphurous story. This movie has something of a pornographic character. It focuses on the act itself.

A bouquet of roses her. Petals brush up against each other. And this goes on as the image traces the feelings which invade me. The forms mingle, blend, and carress one another. Sixteen minutes to let oneself be carried off in this swirl of pink clouds.

With the immense freighters, the colors of the horizon will come, pushed by the winds, to take the whites of the cliffs, to project them in the green of the vegetation...

The infinity of an extraordinary landscape, a canoe trip down the Ardèche gorges. The image is lodged in a stone vault in a sacred place.

The universe upside down, the form emerges from the light. The body emerges from the image. Everything becomes one. Digital critters vibrate and fly. The order is no longer the same….

In the Klimt’s gold brought to the melting point by a flaming afternoon sky above Hawick, in the south of Scotland, one bird is crossing the sky. From one end of the horizon to the other, its flight defies space and time, to the extent of making them bend and overlap into each other. The journey to the light is to waive the appearences to embrace a mystical dimension where all become love-light-gold. This infinite flux evolves into harmony of existence and unity of life, where all colors join together, kiss and blend.

The island of Patiras is the first land on the water of the estuary of the Gironde (west south of France). It is the first place where the winds of the ocean sink. It is a modest land with no relief. At the point, there is a shelter, an observatory overhung by a lighthouse. It is a rough and delicate corner, where time is suspended, but swept by the wind, burned by the sun, blown by the salts of the spray.

At the end of October (a few days before my birthday actually) Nicole asked me to produce a small film for a great man, a short film, a film like a birthday song, a common gift. Nicole sends me many portraits that she likes very much, some are historical documents, others pictures made by JLG.