Elle est nue sous ses cheveux

For several years now I have practised waking dream: eyes closed, breathing, a dictaphone, and an account that I bring back, rewrite, then record. It is the way I have found of returning to that childhood state where the imagined lived constantly alongside real life, the state of the attic where I put on the clothes my uncle had sewn in order to inhabit another world. Elle est nue sous ses cheveux is a mind palace where these dreams are stored and offered for listening. A bed of raw red clay covers the floor; along its edges, open shells the size of a body each hold a loudspeaker from which a dream comes, very quietly. You have to lie down to hear them, in the position in which I made the work and in which I dream. Facing it, I have set the celestial harlequin costume my uncle made for me when I was five. To enter the white room, I sewed a garment after a coat he had made for my grandmother. From one dream to the next, they speak of skins that one inhabits and then abandons, of a child's body growing into adulthood, then into old age. The same figure returns in them, as a sister, as an old woman, as an insect. The garment of the performance replays these successive skins.