In my cranium, it is empty, so it seems vast, unlimited, and yet it
is enclosed. It is like a large studio and everything seems possible.
In my chest, once past the sensitive boundary of my breasts, where
skin is more fragile than elsewhere, in my chest I am swallowed up in
the swaying of respiratory movements, breathing, the breath of life.
To find a beating heart, I must change perspective, everything must
be reversed. I am inside, in the ribcage. There, I am small, Lilliputian,
a larva in a forest in summer. The forest is sultry, powerful, it rustles
and quivers. The trunks of pine trees thrust upwards underneath me like
columns, they meet and close to form an arch. Like the bars of a cage,
like the gray bones of a skeleton.
As a child, the Jura forest where my aunt forcibly dragged me in order
to breathe fresh air gave me asthma attacks. I anticipated the day when,
finally an adult, I would master it, I would be languid, a real daughter
of nature, bare-skinned and confident. Forgetting, as a result, the
cage, closed like the teeth in a jaw, and the fragility of a body.
The Intruder, like any intruder, arrived secretly, wormed its
way in and gnawed away, bit by bit, at my imaginary territory.
The film is not a person, animal or virus but its design (grand plan)
slowly, stealthily unfurls.