We last saw Irène in a Parisian bar for the launch of one of her first issues. She called herself an ‘erotic fanzine’ but she moved too fast and couldn’t stand up straight. If there’s mystery for every thing and the mystery of everything is poetry, then Irène was lacking in both poetry and mystery. She had porn chic with an artsy aesthetic, but she was too young and feverish to flesh out that most beautiful of troubles.
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