To take me in,
Paris gave me birth, inside out.
But its womb was cold.
I penetrated with my body and soul.
Her coldness was a slap in the face.
Till then Paris was no more
than a spot on the map.

I was a spot on Paris.
My umbilical cord was stuck to her navel
and my newborn gaze surrendered to her.
Astride a grave, I was born anew,
reborn in another place.
And nothing would ever be the same again,
in so many other moments:
Paris is not Periperi
Periperi is not Paris.

My feet trod her softly
looking for new paths.
Everything in me at that moment,
was a kind of caress.
Around Paris, I walked,
and by walking,
I caressed her.
And Paris carried me.
a fruit hanging heavy
from the mother tree.

And Paris would take me in inside out.
Burrowing into her entrails,
I penetrated with body and soul.
To the core of her coldness,
I gave my face to be slapped.
And Paris would never be again
a mere spot on the map.

• Throne of weapons

• The light of the paint

• Still movement

• Self-portrait with monkey

• The gaze of the dwarf

• In the depth of the cloth

• At the margin

• The circle

• Ruins

• The burning house

• Plutôt oiseau que pájaro

• 22 June 1937

• Ship of several trees

• To read a language

• Dead word

• My mother died in London

• It was my son, my father

• Living from glass

• Lesson on the beach