I live in a whirlwind of foam.
It is from Victor Hugo that I borrow this title, who contemplating the sea in Guernsey, wrote as a metaphor for his heart tormented by the loss of his daughter.
But there is no tragedy in these images: the bodies dance, sway, collide. Laughter erupts, the young girls parade. Little by little, everyone is drunk with heat and salt, rocked by the haunting sound of the wave. The eye struggle to focus, the gaze flew in streaks of pure white, the ghostly image strobe, so much so that we no longer know who is moving, them or us on the shore. Then the sun turns pale, heats up, the eyes blur. The hyperrealistic image of a summer day on a Moroccan beach vanishes into a dreamlike abstraction in which only the idea of movement remains.