Twenty-two drawings and forty-four prints.

They have the same, obsessive attention for steadiness. In both series are birds.

In the drawing series, they all parade with their beak downward. One could wonder whether they are dead. They have certainly been abandoned. They fluctuate in an airy, white space, but I could swear they must have fallen to the ground. Theirs is just the memory of a flight.
There is colourlessness, a clear one. It may depend on the obtained technique, that layering of tissue paper, tracing paper, baking paper, glues and cocoa butter that contributes to making them restless phantasmagorical presences. But maybe this is just the result of the surrendering they herald. Surrendering to nature, to strength, to life. And of the subsequent, unavoidable discomfort of the ones who dare stop and think about it.

The prints are pictures taken from the synoptic tables of an old dictionary, scanned and printed on translucent sketching paper. They linger on the anatomic details of birds. Always on the same ones. They list beaks, necks, feathers. They insist. They have something primitive. Something that cannot be completely resolved. They seem to be coming out of one of Johann Jakob Scheuchzer’s worst fears.