Valéry Lorenzo has managed to do it

I don't think I can endure much more of this guy without hopping a plane to Toulouse, to demand what makes him tick. I do not, for a moment, mean to accuse him of one's own sentiments, but naturally, this only adds to his mystery. Like anyone, I abhor enigma in his gender, for tending toward instability, confusion, crisis, and a long night of solitary anguish. It is incongruous - not in the moral sense, but in that of equanimity, which we all prize without reser-vation - for erotic subversion to emanate from the distant quarter of one's own gender. And now he has done it.

M Lorenzo has laid upon a suavely stressed bottom-sheet an artifact of a man, allowing it to adopt that histrionic import he knows we read into it. But we were not born to that dread, and take the ges-ture, rather, as a natural toss of a conspicuously fashionable relic of himself, in its double prongs, illuminated by exposure of its eyelets. Here, is the warmth and the scent of the figure at the waist, the resilient, malleable torsion of the form at its fulcrum, we embrace.

I'm impressed by his depicting the real attachment, the form we observe as everyone else does, only to make sense of it in a treasuring, grateful way.










i, Valéry Lorenzo