Studio An Fonteyne

Sara Sherif

The Picture of Dorian Gray - Dorian

Dorian Gray, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

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Raie de lumière, à l’eau de beauté

The manor was mine. The manor is her. Wide entrance. I am in the manor. I can’t believe it. Imposing staircase. I am here. Again. I see her in the mirror. She gently smiles. I know this smile. Beautiful mole beneath her lips, beautiful mole over her chin. She leads the way. I succumb to her gait. Steps designed to suit her indolence. I follow her silhouette. She has always been confident, I have always been confused. I know the way but walk clumsily. There is something disruptive in the air, as usual.

I can’t see her anymore. I follow the echo of her heels delicately meeting the hard polished ground. Wide door at the end of the stairs. I open it. Here she is, subtly leaning on a balustrade, looking at the ceiling. Spiraling prism above our heads. Herbie Hancock. Ray of sunshine in suspension. Filament of dust in the air. White wall dyed with strips of shadow and light. White wall stained with streaks of shadow and light. Hypnotizing. Hollow tour. Mind filled with thoughts. Cloud of silence. Morning dew. Drops of water sliding from the roof to the marble flooring beneath us. Pulse beating at the drops rhythm. I see my reflection in the water. I feel her gaze through the reflection. Diligent aura... I guess ? Observing. Sipes slightly perforating the wall. Feeling observed. I close my eyes. She whispers. She sings. I perfectly hear the softness of her inaudible voice. It echoes in my heart. It vibrates in the space. Her heels meet the ground, again. Four identical doors. She choose the nearest one.

Her heels will not hit the floor anymore. She is barefoot now. Summer warmth. Terrazzo’s freshness. Cool space. Travertine’s smoothness. Big space. Designed fragments. Disguised spontaneity. Domesticated agora. She is my tyrant. I volunteered for it. Sweetest nightmare. Reminiscence. We spent a lots of time together here. She would talk. I would talk. Perfect harmony. She would laugh. I would laugh. Perfect symmetry. The room would always be filled with the perfume of her self confidence. I still smell it. I still feel it. She was my sweetest taboo. Sade. She isn’t anymore. Away. I know her well. Beyond her facade. Beyond her will to control. I learned to embrace her complexity, to look beyond this fake symmetry and still she is a mystery.

Hidden door in the wall. I know where it leads. I open it. I take a look at the small chapel from the sipes perforating the wall. Red velvet carpet. I sit and stare at the three rays of light caressing the ebony room. I feel her close to me. I am craving. I want to come closer. To grab her hand. To hold her. To embrace her. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. She ain’t. I want to blasphemy but I can only pray. She died two years ago and since then, she is haunting me.

 

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