happy child

All is white

A small black dot is getting bigger in the middle

They are coming

It would be like a tale, with chapters

A voice-cover would describe memories, anecdotes

There would be characters with double personalities,

We could see their dark side, when they are turning back, only with a different

Glance or just when they nod

A kind of happy detective story

A family is meeting up to celebrate an event,

then a disappearance,

a plot

Coming back into someone else’s body

They are suddenly playing at children’s games,

Stories about twins,

about what is unspoken

Very sensual relationship and sometimes excessive scripts about disappearance,

Excuses for playing like children,

Not knowing when the game is over

Disappearances like lapses of memory

Giving symbols to acts, like in tales, we would get mystery firmly in our mind

And we get lost in the forest

Here the forest is this family, is this living-room, is this very moment when they

Are meeting when they are looking at each other an uprooted tree is ready

To fall down, it is put there, in the middle of all that and of bags of earth

The bodies are like rocks, with their blankets those people become biblical landscape

I want to magnify their drift.

I would like to elucidate the relationship between the family with all that is unspoken, its brutality in the face of silence, and then the sensation of lacking, linked to absence, the disappearance of the father and mother figures and paradoxically to their rejection.

How one hides behind masks, how one becomes someone else. The idea of the mask, the simulacrum. Like children. Instinctive. Really work on instinct.

A kind of macabre dance within a family ...

Nathalie Béasse