A theatre of apparitions. A life that glows, silver glares and clouds of smoke. Dawns and sunsets reflected in an eye, animal or human. Twilights. Lights are like a sharp blade or powdery like the sand thrown in the air by a magician.

In a world that seems to be ours, with the same streets, buildings and vehicles, now emerges flashes, clouds, and ghosts. It looks as if a wall has burst. The wall of appearances. And by default one steps in to a mythical world, peopled by children-kings and tired heroes. A daily life woven with magic spells.

The light. Whether blinding, or surd to the point to gobble the world with her disappearance. A light that is neither a due nor a mystical grace. But a reason to move forward.

But yet, the matter of his pictures is dark, thick, almost oily. Before that something pierces, explodes, unfolds and streaks the frame of the photograph. A fugitive chiaroscuro running through the shadow. An art of the border. In balance. Ballasted with the instant weight.

The photographer is one who re-enchants the world. Neither light nor futile, he gets his hands dirty by digging into the substance of the cities to extract a few moments, to extract a few moments.

Between lightning and a sorcerer look.

Bruno Dubreuil