Three petals or four, no more. Raw, soft or slanting light. These roses are not or no longer roses. They have undergone nothing less than a metamorphosis! They smell other fragrances, evoke strange exhalations. Strange, sensual. Erotic even. Jacques Beun's roses speak of the body, of its epidermal velvet, its blood-veined transparencies or the lips of a sex indicated as a possibility. They are not roses. In spite of the colour, purple, violet or purple more or less purple. Not roses, rather metaphors or second degree. The one that, away from fire, arson. Look, you're in the presence of a suggestion. Is it soft dunes or the curves of a back, is it the orb of thighs. Is it a buttocks or a sunset brushing against the horizon? Not roses, no. Simply a reminiscence of courtly love. In pictures, a new rose novel! See the forms of a photographer who dismantles, deconstructs, diverts and then reassembles and makes us spin high. Very high. Where seeing awakens something other than the seen.
To discover: The series "The shape of the gaze" by J.Beun on KAZoART