Foxglove's
Shapes of Moon

Melancholy has a deep connection with reflection and mirrors. Perhaps it is born at the point where the gaze meets its reflection in the mirror, that crystal trap.

And I, Andromache, think of You, of that thin, poor, and sad mirror, where once shone the great majesty of your sorrow, that weeping for the disappearance of Hector.

Vic is our Artist.

And he walked alone through the streets of Paris.

The stigmata in the heart of an exile's melancholy, white and pure like a swan, but with his feathers increasingly dusted with that modernity.

In all the Parisian grandeur, it is strange to feel enclosed and tight in that alley, between decay and exile, powerless in the face of the devastation of the lords of modernity.

And it's in that powerful beat of wings, from that tremor of the earth where slowly from the ashes one could see that Pantheon being restored, from that strong gaze reaching out towards the Sky, that the life and the meaning of the Artist begin; it was time to declare war on the devastation advancing with the power of poetry, of art, of music.

Sète Southern France; 21st century.

We are all in love with melancholy, we seek it in all forms, we chase after everything that is lofty and haughty, what could also make us happy, but at sunset, those hidden truths emerge inexorably like gardenias, those germinations of nocturnal thoughts craved for silence. Village festivals are also a great opportunity to show off, to display a new and shiny dress, that elusive sparkle as a counterpoint to the cavernous catacombs where most human existences are consumed. The town concert in Sète had been organized in the Arena, that old Greek amphitheater that sometimes seems to hang suspended over the sand, on the same level as the mating seagulls. Groups of all ages and genres participated, in recent years the prevailing genre was rap and Hip Hop, the last edition had been won by a young artist who had tried to rap Edith Piaf. All this might seem normal, summer, a beautiful location in France, a music event, a healthy competition as the winner would benefit from a recording contract and an appearance on Canal Plus.

But Vic was not interested in that normality, that infertile land of sentiment simulacra, passive vegetation of that bland sentimentalism which was provincial and is now digital, where on the ground neither authentic joy nor real disdain is discharged, but one is a puppet tucked by clever and plump hands, between mass infantilism and hide-and-seek identities, a mirror distorting that rich chromaticism of human emotions and perceptions, at the mercy of the Bald Polemicist and the clown-like Progressive of the moment. Vic took all the time necessary to attend the event, set off around midnight, with the faithful drum machine in his backpack, Giselle somewhat scrunched in his suitcase, followed by the Bizet trio, his German shepherd. That strange trio didn’t give the impression of speeding up to arrive on time, indeed halfway through the journey they decided to stop for a drink at Pierre’s kiosk. Upon arrival, they were only slightly tipsy and naturally, as one could imagine, they were not the least bit surprised that the competition had long since ended. After midnight the moon shone like a comet above the Arena, there was nothing left but to slowly set up the equipment, set on the sequencer the samples chosen the night before, and finally wake Giselle. The ingredients were all there for a great performance; the absence of arrogant souls, a stellar moon, Bizet's indulgent gaze on stage, that melancholy which now found the right pressure to emerge from Pandora’s box and illuminate the Pantheon with beauty. And so it was, indeed, a show for fervent amateurs and even absentees, for lovers of lust, calm and wisdom, those seekers of silence and mysteries that Hades would certainly have enlisted as funeral couriers, if not for that innate libertine streak. And amid the creaks of the synth, one suddenly hears a breath, but this one is warm and human and not icy electronic, Vic has opened his suitcase and is inflating Giselle, who is slowly taking on her voluptuous materiality; the breath seems at a certain point to falter but it will suffice, after all, she is just a doll 1.85 m tall. And among that melancholy between those Greek walls on the beach, there is also time to dance with Giselle to the electro waltz of Shapes of Moon; feel that body vibrate in that blend of notes, observe that face and those eyes crystallized in that premature cry that will never be realized, twirl under the stars in the arena in that solitary and mesmerizing dance.

And then that song, Rêves Éphémères, which opens with a dreamy melody escaped from a 30s variety show, with Vic slowly weaving that magical ouverture, that anthem to freedom, that Marsillaise sung by those going against the current, emptied of every dogma, of every color, filled only by the pulsations of that heart beating hard through those streets of Paris, like that of the Homeric Hector, who aware of his destiny lifts his little son to the sky and in that sacred elevation illuminates an entire civilization struggling to find its steps in that moonlit landscape scattered with absences.