The furniture appears, tiptoeing around. The items round the wall, retain- ing a story. They create some more. Things of beauty and color. And when they keep still, it is through their lines that passes an image, the memory of a summer. A drawer opens up, turning us upside down, sometimes it is by following the wood that we find ourselves in the forest.





Joris Poggioli is a storyteller. He thinks of the practical and rationalizes what is superfluous. He dresses up the space by draw- ing matter, breaking down the feminine curves of this other alphabet. Childhood, clouds where the lines of our beautifully scattered lives stretch with elegance. Youth creates the irresistible with the urge to whisper to us: why choosing between dreams and intensity.


Les yeux fermés, le bleu d'une évidence, les chérubins sont venus s'attabler, sans ne rien déranger.


S'il suffisait de soulever les pierres pour qu'elles retrouvent la mémoire, draper les nues et s'adonner.


Les girafes ne savent pas s'assoir, elles donnent leur cou à de long baisers. Les lions sont inconsolables.



Hanche ou bassin, vert suspendu, les couleurs sont des lacs depuis que les laques sont de grandes eaux teintés.


Le rose, cet animal à nos pieds, cet autre bouts de fleurs, comme une larme qui aimerait ne jamais s'effacer.


We inhabit two immobile hands, a console, the pursuit of the color blue, the south of the city, a brass drawer, an illu- minated feel, tell me again mirror, screens, hard-bitten life, a night enjoyed fully, work of hands, slow drawing, part of a sofa, ebony, the heart, that glance in which we travel, this form we go to, starting again, learning to love, touching, the lightness of the moment, that one same sentence circulating, suspension, lacquer work, draped, body of light, matted back, marble, arched mouths, we live in the space of your wide light eyes, Penelope, Venus, Aglae. We live in the space of a certain freedom. And Youth to whisper: why should we choose.