It will never get dark on the sea of our memories. Somewhere, in the shadow of the dancing rain, stands a photographer who paints time stretching languidly. Far from the implacable metronome of the ephemeral, Stéphane Mahé offers us his tenderly faded skies on which dreams are born, his feverish landscapes of loneliness populated by intimate resonances, his dull silhouettes hesitating on the edge of an evening. As a star-strewn night pours out in all its infinity on a summer day or the shadow of a mysterious wood closes over frail human skiffs, we hear a murmur in the drunken dust of the sky. blue hour: “I let the spleen of our loves sit on my heart … the twilight of our idylls is not without grace … the bitter wind will dry the tears of melancholy on my cheeks … tomorrow is lost in the shimmering waters of memory… ”.
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