It’s on the edge of the Arles arena, No. 45. There’s a dirt floor and gravel and it’s wonderful. Chairs arranged on both sides welcome the visitor, the spectator. One feels at home,and somewhat elsewhere. I climb the few stairs leading toward the brightly lit exhibition hall. On one wall a variety of variously shaped frames are hung. You feel the temptation to dive into them. Ulrich Lebeuf is there and we talk briefly about his series Tropiques du Cancer. It’s a series that is deconstructed and reconstructed. An intimacy is here presented to the world, brief glimpses of a life: Polaroids with washed out colors, as if faded by time. These images are jostled, damaged, salvaged. The feelings are mixed up then untangled. “I never planned to show these images,” he says. “It’s very different from what I normally exhibit.”
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