Plafond

We rarely observe and touch this flat surface that overlooks our bodies. It can be adorned with moldings, sometimes made of glass, paneling, or covered with its replica, it is usually coated with plaster and painted a white that remains faithful to the walls. It closes off the room which becomes a shelter and hides the sky from us. A roof is hidden behind it, or perhaps the ground on which rests the bed of a sleeping stranger. As it is difficult to reach, we only approach it to (re)paint it or clean it, tickle it with the cobweb brush or massage it with the paint roller.

When fatigue and doubt invade our trained bodies, it’s time to face it. We adopt a vulnerable position, we lay flat. Our eyes open and close at irregular intervals facing this inverted floor that guards and observes us. It acts as a limit to our thinking vision and sends it back to us brutally: the ceiling is a projection canvas and it is reflected in our eyes, our pupils turn pale.

Above our heads, there is a sheet of zinc around which we turn gradually and repeat our gestures in one direction then in the other. We are gradually altering this material which usually protects and covers roofs. Just like our bodies, sandpaper wears out and becomes more precise. Our determination makes us sweat and the zinc dust dissolved in the water drips onto our hands and onto the floor. The central zone of the sheet where our efforts are concentrated is gradually revealed. Absorbed by this transforming surface that we rub gently, time has disappeared into the ceiling.