The black stage at the Théâtre de Chaillot seems covered with a page of white paper.
A straw chair, a microphone and, behind on the black, a basin.
An iconic vision of what is pure and simple?
What does this decor mean?
By dint of tearing the world under his heels to bring out God knows what forms, Rocio Molina, the furious, the rebellious, would she have changed her footing?
It appears at the bottom.
Pointed cat face, hair pulled back.
Her dress seems cut from a cloud.
She smiles.
She slowly approaches.
A man sits down.
She hands him a guitar.
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Weaves itself in its gestures, their softness, their economy, something infinitely vaporous and cushioned.
The reverse side of the anger that we know him to be so intense.
A patience, a way of suspending the moments in a peace which recalls the Madonnas of Murillo carried towards the nimbuses, and escorted by cherubs.
This goes on.
We are surprised.
We watch for the heel kick that will shatter this vertigo like a shootout in a padded dawn.
But nothing.
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