I barely realize what my body is to me. It is both my origin and my end. There was a time when I hung on my mother’s reef; I was a fish. Of that, I only have traces of it in the DNA transmitted by my parents. I can’t remember my conception or my birth, as if these moments didn’t belong to me, as if it were a mystery more unfathomable than divine reason.
On my first day, the waters opened, and I opened my gills. My body knew what to do, and it still does. It is my friend, my companion, accepts the wanderings of my mind. My body is my mind. I enjoy it, I suffer from it. I cultivate an ambiguous relationship with it, while I don’t know when it talks, don’t guess when it keeps quiet. It is my servant, taking care of daily tasks. I know I have to watch it because it is sometimes too stupid, accumulates fat when it no longer needs it, vomits when it has had enough, makes me think full of nonsense when it pours into serotonin, or I don’t know which of the substances it is master of.
I started photography a little bit to explore myself, both by looking at others and at myself. My body will say nothing when it dies, and I will say nothing more, for I am more than a Trinity, I am one.
When I touch another body, mine panics, opens my eyes wide, wants to taste, eat, stuff itself. Mooring on someone else’s shore makes you dizzy, and I know you have to keep your eyes open. Bodies get drunk, so quickly, they start dancing at the slightest resonance. In another’s body, the fury of the big bang vibrates. And my own atavisms tell me both the lies and the truths I want to hear.
There is no true meditation except the one who listens to its body. For our flesh is our kingdom. The consciousness that we have of it is a beautiful dress that we sometimes take off, the time to love ourselves.