ach of these photographs reinvents a form of time through a subtle play of tensions and release. It is no longer astronomical time, or a form of perpetual motion without landmarks, but a kind of parallel, intermediate time, desynchronised, torn away from any original, linear continuity, with no reconciliation possible. It is a form of the present, a rotating present that turns on itself with increasing velocity until it totally disappears. It collapses into itself from inside. It is now no more than a black hole, a void into which reality escapes and in which the imagination is engulfed.