That day, the heat was thick, dense.
A heat that clings to the skin and eventually pins you to the truth.

The evening light entered like a blade. It cut the space into hard, angular lines, into almost violent geometric shapes, sliding across Louve’s body as if searching for an anchor point, a crack, a truth.

The shadows didn’t settle on Louve; they tried to enter her, to sink into her burning skin, to inscribe themselves there, like a mark left raw. Everything became tension: the air, the light, the matter.

Louve has a sharp beauty. Frank. Unapologetic.
A presence that neither seeks to seduce nor to reassure : it simply exists, whole, upright, impossible to smooth out.

I didn’t direct anything, I didn’t soften anything; I just watched the light look for her.
And I fell into it…

There was nothing to perform. Only heat, geometry, tension.
And Louve.
Fully there.