Signed; Marc Dubord - Anonymous (176/250 ex.) - 2012

Rarest publication, limited to 250 copies, signed and with inscription. Nearly new condition

Dubord overflows. He overflows with ideas. Ideas that overwhelm him and fly off into spaces of unreality. Marc Dubord doesn’t know, any more than we do, why things are what they are; so he searches for fragments of answers in the trunks of his memories, in the attics of History. Small or grand history, gossip or confidences, like a psychoanalysis of his own grimacing fantasy, one sees reappear on his photos the thread of his recurring nightmares.

In all this jumble of abacadabrant characters composed in a surreal amalgam à la Henri Alekan or Jan Saudek on Photoshop, one no longer knows whether these are pagan feasts or the Carnival of Fools.

We are in the North under the clouds, or in the workshop of an old Brueghel who would toy with translucent fabrics; we see leather, faux leather, or velvet, but also stamps and wallpapers, a fantastical/fantastic world.

Marc Dubord acts empirically and methodically at the same time. He pretends not to mean to, as if he were having fun misguiding the dogma. He disobeys to satisfy an anarchist whim as much as he amuses himself by making believe that nothing is ever serious. No more Death than Love, no more Sex than family, no more Art than mythological animals.

Marc Dubord plays with anachronisms, scandalous juxtapositions, associations of criminals or of the good-thinking. He pastes in transparency the wind and the storm, flesh and the bidet brush, innocence and false modesty.

When you look at Marc Dubord’s images, you can’t help but look down, sometimes embarrassed by his voyeur gaze, on the edge of Grand Guignol. Images captive to current events from an in-between world, bizarre remanences and unsettled dissonances come to be heard in these constructed photos.

Naive or offbeat, armed with a flashlight and a graphic palette, Marc Dubord visits the underground of consciousness. He lights up the shadow, or darkens the contrasts, from this base camp he set up to live on the hidden side of a honeyed moon.

Sometimes the obvious leaps to your eyes like a werewolf in broad daylight: Marc Dubord is not a realistic photographer, he is a composer. He wants to prove nothing, to demonstrate nothing, to reveal nothing, no. His mystery hibernates in the lair of the being, where the anima/animus that is in us hides.

Like conscript postcards or like devotional images, sometimes kitsch and sometimes mature, sometimes cruel, sometimes grotesque or hybrid, the portraits he creates are imbued with a deep existential angst as much as with a popular Halloween-like romance.

In his own way, Marc Dubord tells fables in pictures.

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