Rouge

In Red, everything moves, except the colour, explored in all its nuances. Things ferment and teem. On the stage, the accumulation of what wears the colour of blood, of shame, of emotion and of revolution, becomes hallucination, incessant crisis, engendering the multiplication of objects, clothing, foods, bric-à-brac, glasses, cadenced by the artist's actions and sudden questions. “What colour is this?” she asks before a red pepper. When the stage seems to give way under the vermillion, it is then the body that incorporates the possibilities of the colour in it and turns into organic matter: blood, of course, but also scratches, smothering, cries, an ever broader extension, always reinvented, of the world seen again under the sign of red. For the spectator, this isn’t simple entertainment or an exercise in style, but rather a variation on his own inner screen, where his fears, fantasies and desires are projected. Because red remains that diabolical colour in which everything is revealed.