from Thursday, June 13, 2019 to Saturday, July 27, 2019
Galerie XII Paris
Let the world be born again,
too many eyes beset it.
Landscapes - on endless fogs a light wavers in questions. A suspended time pours its drops of light. Airy regrets of blues and mauves veil the open space The Greco gray, rustling, is never far. The borders are vanishing. Let the sky flow, the sea in itself.
Backs - despite scarification of the backgrounds, the offering is all the more naked. A body creates the space. And the rose, in its dolence, is equilibrium. And always, lights and colors stretched to our eyes like a bowl of hot milk. A fragrance of light. Thought then leads one life and the eye, another.
From the first contacts with Baghir's work, a conviction as powerful as it is sweet reaches us. A shock that does not result from any noisy process. Something intimate to our senses: water for our roots to gorge them with all innocence.
For those who already know his previous works, it will be easy to discern the links that ensure the continuity between the poetic work of Digital Perturbances and the pictorial work of Photographic Passports. The retina of Baghir composes in persistent, elegant, tenuous grace notes. We see as through the folds of an eyelid that would become canvas. The air is dyed with azures and moisture. Nothing stains the light. The air is a bath of colors. Chromatic tenderness. Silence waiting to be broken. Patience of the photographer waiting the moment, spared the painter’s repentance. Just encircled scars.
Passports, finally, so that an eyelid cannot be closed except in an epiphany. Make a clean place, without delay, for the sole sake of this quivering source and chance that flees us. In carnal mornings, the models of the photographer are the officiants, without their knowledge, of this grace. Baghir has never finished soliciting the visual experience. His virtuoso foreshadows what we persist in waiting for, what we would like to learn to receive. In this world that has become difficult to inhabit, Baghir's photographic work patiently lingers at the window like Vermeer's Geographer: "Let the world be born again, too many eyes beset it."
Martine Jobbé Duval