By Jean-Marc Chapa
"Get out. Get out of the way. Run away from birth without looking back, you see. The origin of the foul, it opens like a detective novel. Black, red, blood. The dressing code is respected. Everything starts there, at the bottom of a strange hut, drowned in the moor and the immensity. And solitude. First of the feelings, last of the sad passions.
And then, here you are, with your face. Solar and twilight. Perhaps you wanted to flee the epicenter, because it was overshadowing you, but here you are, always forced to come back to it, torn off, sucked through the mineral flagella, the branchy and sharp yards, the burning bushes, the hairy chasms, the wet vulvas, the unvarnished sexes. It all smells like cum, beauty, ugliness and sweat. May God fuck you. May all the gods fuck you.
There will be only for you. You and your fragmented, irresolute, encyprinated looks. You offend us there of a pantheon of which one does not know what to make, if not to plunge there by opening the mouth, the eyes, the members. Animals, bodies, sexes, minerals, dead trees, phallic trees, nave of the foutres, designs of childhood, cabinet of curiosity between two blows of kidney. Dante wandering in the parking lots, the dingy apartments, the sticky slums, the greatness of the landscapes, a finger or two between the lips.
God damn you, and the devil with you. No one wants to meet you at the crossroads of four roads, not far from the dark forests, because you are a black star. A swallower. A crusher. Everything your gaze penetrates ends up at the bottom of an orifice offered in holocaust. Dark rituals to your glory, by offering themselves to the objective, they sell you their souls. Lecherous matagot, you have fucked them well. And, they gave it back to you. Double fuck. May God, may the Devil, may Life fuck you, fuck you Jean-Marc Chapa. "
Offset print / 17 x 24 cm / Softcover
Photographs : Jean-Marc Chapa
Texts : Thomas Burion & Jean-Marc Chapa