Paloma Beach

There are names that carry the whole south within them. Paloma Beach, the little cove of Cap Ferrat where the light has never really left the pines, where the water holds its turquoises like a well-kept secret.

Night blue surfaces at the top, dense, almost velvety. Then the sea tips into turquoise, that turquoise so particular to the Riviera, the one found nowhere else. The waves dance, the vaporous foam rises, falls, rises again.

And the shore, below, burns gently. The golden sand is there, truly there, integrated into the canvas, mingled with the matter, with its glints of gold that extend the sun. One can almost feel it beneath one's feet.

It is a beach inhabited by the light of the south. A memory of warm skin, of salt on the lips, of afternoons that never end.

Matter, structural plaster, acrylic, sand, gold leaf. Wabi-sabi. To paint the south. To sculpt the cove.