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POPE OF DOLLS

Too much to handle in parallel in this blog are that it idles! The opportunity for me to resurface here arises because with the official release of the book by Gérard Lavalette aka The Pedestrian Charonne and the opening of his show tonight at the Town Hall, 11 °, I may publish a taste of what's in the book. The program includes photos of the famous Pedestrian 11th, bound for the caption text. I thank thereby one I call " gehele " for having proposed to place a stone in his building, the fruit of years of wanderings and encounters Parisian inspired. Here is the text written for him in a photo illustration that I was deeply intrigued ... I passed this little shop there - avenue Parmentier - it was closed, but hopefully one day a little chat with Henry Launay for see if my "hunches text" about this character out of time were good. Another picture of Gérard here.

The amount of the sale of book will be fully paid to the association "The photo of young Parisians - Parimagine . Other authors have contributed to accompany the photos of Gerard, I invite you to discover them ...

In the midst of his flock and rustic démantibulées, Pope of the Dolls seems to watch over them as cherubim on its own: in his cabinet of curiosities, it makes plastic surgery ... Can he also repaired a broken heart? He needed it a shot screwdriver to restore its virtue? I like to think that its mechanics is the soul beat of these clones miniaturized so often dreamed of by girls, as surely as their comic faces contain the horror scenarios of an imaginary place peopled with ghosts. In this tangle of naked limbs, heads askew on the shelves stacked set their eye plexiglass counter of the shop. They belong to resin models fashion victims of an era; Russian, they overlap each other like pieces of a puzzle: the human body and its facets, voodoo, their skin is fake pin pricked to a slow their double live.

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trinkets All this is exposed in scattered pieces, filled with relics of the words of a mysterious past who, under the leadership of the artisan broken their workings, continue to live through all ages. Absorbed in a kind of stubborn silence. They remind me of smooth octopus, whose pulse is grafted on to the kid who cons his heart emissions. This same kid, an adult, would remember perhaps care and affection he bore to his comforters become flesh and blood in the guise of his own children. Sometimes decorative objects, objects sometimes ego, these toys immemorial evoke both the cellar and the old perfume, fabric formity and creaking wood, family secrets and broken china, imbuing the strange dispensary of a powder to taste eternity.

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