Through the misty brightness of dawn, an animal's-soul in flesh advances.
We return to the kingdom of witchcraft. Photography, before being mechanical is an alchemy : living matter, movement, a game of masks and mirrors, of fusions and putrefactions. So alone on earth, we are bored with our cities and countries : forests have no mysteries, we can no longer have our throat cut by brigands, eaten up by hyenas or infernal spirits. By games of illusions and mirages, lost roads and daydreams, Linda Tuloup, by her incantations and ill fates, reveals, imposes, to our everyday life a divine kind of reality, feline and feminine. Illusions are as much promises of hapiness as they are of destruction, arson as much as bonfire. They remind us of a time when gods, humans and animals were side by side, conspiring, copulating and giving birth.
The snake's song has ceased, we have clothes but hardly magic. The Goddesses are in museums and nudity has never been on the streets, because we may be arrested. Perhaps we must build a temple to look at these apparitions, bow down on our knees, quaver, offer as a sacrifice bad friends and cheap romances ?
In the whirlwind of seasons, where do our illusions take us ? Was their resurrection desired ?

Hervé Baudat