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This whole business of images started when the doctor recommended that I look, and look and look again until I understood something. On his kindly advice, I looked intently at images in order to understand them, amazing images of extraordinary bodies. Images in which one understands nothing. Images of succubi and those possessed by the devil, images of anger and irony, of impersonation and crucifixion, of wonder and possession, images of ecstasy and convulsion.

I looked at the images of bodies that produced the images. Bodies that were simply vulnerable surfaces, presented for photographic recording and dermographical inscription. Public bodies on which floating words had been fixed by hands become cynical through indifference. Words that were no longer read as words but rather as symptoms. A symbolic violence exerted by the intersection of reifying hands and gaze. A risk that is part of the desire to become an image.

Can you believe that I could be held by these images to the point of being almost maternal towards them? I protected them, loved them, took care of them, revived them, cleaned them up and made them speak. I even reintroduced them into the incessant circulation of images. I hear said that images are appropriated, that they are used as citations but never is it said that one takes care of images, that one would like to make up for the abuse and humiliation that they have been subjected to.

ICI MOI J’IMAGE ( extraits)
©Nicole Jolicoeur

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