First visit

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Suspended life

Two steps to a lower level. A small entry. All silent. On the right, a door opens on to Fance’s flat. Behind the turquoise window of the bathroom, the bunch of dried flowers has gone… On the left entry, on the lower level, the studio is plunged in a semi-darkness.

I go inside. I unload my camera bag and sit down. I listen to the silence. Through the silence, Fance’s voice makes its way, her American accent, the energy of her enthusiasm and her convictions. But Fance is not there any more, and my mission is to take pictures, to keep the memory… of what exactly? A place? Of someone’s presence before she vanished? I stand up and walk through the studio. Around me are potteries. Some are familiar, some unknown. On Fance’s desk, small objects, contents of memories which are hers, cards or post-its on which I recognize her writing. Under the glass roof, the enamelling cabin is empty and nothing is awaiting on the marble slab. Further, the silent white biscuits strike me. They are waiting, like orphans… Doors of cupboards open on to moulds or colored pigment pots. The kilns wait for promises of baking although, at the back end of the studio, vases or bowls whose decoration is not finished sleep under shrouds of plastic. Suspended life. Dark place, half buried under earth. It is in those depths that Fance’s works were born. From each one emanates a dense presence or a light, proud or tender. Without a doubt, I am not alone. I am surrounded by presences. And, among them, the most moving ones, presumably, remain unfinished: fragile and pure, awaiting in an uncertain in-between…

In this suspended time, I felt like a germ of eternity.

Valerie Winckler

Photos of that visit by Valerie Winckler

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