Coming with another disposition: that of wanting to feel.
I do not come to Fine Arts Paris with the vocabulary of specialists, nor with the assurance of those who can immediately recognise a period, a hand, a provenance or the value of a work.
To feel what happens when one stops before an old drawing, a piece of furniture, a worked material, a painting, an object whose presence time has preserved. To feel what attracts without explaining itself at once. What surprises. What resists the gaze. What, at times, leaves one indifferent — and what that indifference says about us too.