context: The text moves through a feminine landscape. It unfolds as a conversation—poised between the awakening attentiveness of a young girl and the pull for carnal touch—offered as a metaphor for growth.

The photographs were taken during the Printed Matter Art Book Fair in New York. With no personal agenda, I moved as a wandering lens, capturing moments of gathering—people talking, laughing, orbiting one another. Bodies lean in, eyes linger, gestures flirt. It’s a network of connections constantly negotiated, formed and released.

***

A woman’s heart is white. A woman’s body bristles against the garment that rages around it. Women, we are wrapped—without necessarily knowing it—by the tenderness of living within a rounded being. We are both painting and landscape. Our face is thicket, our bust sketches the mountain, our legs are river. We know becoming-rock: hardness split open by affection. It is a breach in the landscape behind the Virgin of the Rocks, a reminder that the protrusion of a woman’s soul cannot be deceived by any nakedness of stone. Man does not know that rock continues to bloom in the bed of a woman.

The nursemaid of my childhood referred to the nature between my legs as a “flower.” Attentive, she taught me its care and its subtleties, as only a mature woman can offer to a girl in bloom. From those words I kept the grace of petals that flourish so as to offer themselves to other women.

Love between women unfolds in the sincerity of their charms, for all of nature strives toward voluptuousness. It makes the blade of grass grow, the bud develop, the blossom open. Its clarity instructs the bliss of two flowers joined together. Two women entwine their thighs to court their sexes in the moist humility of their bouquets. Their flowers caress and swell like the skirts of a character ballet turning in dance. Beneath a sturdy sky, their desire rises to a point. Their breasts lift. Pleasure surfaces slowly, welts and transforms, and the little milk sheds its fragrant sugar. Thus they walk together along the cliffs of enjoyment. The wind blows around their intertwined hands, uncovers their breasts, releases the flannel that fades to the ground. Fabrics give way before the passage of their magnets. The women embrace. Lips search for their sisters—the small and the large—moistening, soaking in iodized breaths. Mouths merge and taste. Naked, the women delight in earthly nourishment. The unctuous moisture of their voluptuousness pours over the rocky flank, splitting the landscape. The spring from which their floral mists are wrung bursts forth in living waters. Love comes from the earth. It is pleasure that enters them and spreads. The red caverns mottled with veins open to the warmth of their sighs. In a shared shiver, the hard rock bursts. The mountain clothes itself in shrubs and the plain comes into flower. They remain there a long while, joined one to the other, in this embrace of skin penetrated only by epidermis. Their Venus clefts are ajar with an exhausted delight—hidden reservoirs of the senses, the valley of their passions.

The one who sees them imagines; they are outside of time. You, who will drink from my thirst.

The virgin river

Has carried away the flowers.

Do you see her from her banks,

Flourishing the sails of her whiteness ?

Indicial Love,

Fragile lights, petals

Brightly gleaming with honey…

In her tenders mists,

Already so fleeting

Do not make her wait,

This life is blushing.

There is more than what you see

Upon waking, orchard of the world:

Freed of its laws,

The breeze is a wanderer.