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TYPE : garment collection & poetry under the form of a limited edition publicationMEDIUMS : Upcycled garments, poetry, polaroid photography
DATE : 2020
LOCATION : London & french Alps

Calling upon fierce women, dresses, words and one-shot-polaroids, Camille Lhunahā Dedenise presents the garments collection & poetry  DEAR MYTH, WE SALUTE YOU under the form of a limited edition publication.

«No one other than herself is on her path
she kisses her own hand
and from the mysteries of maps
unseen bodies are now
birds with wide white feathers
and her hands have become
flying creatures»


Chapter one
        Atlas : unseen bodies

Shadows of devotion run over the lands of grass
Trees rising from the sky to their roots
weaving earth with melancholia and

This is the known song of Earth
the setting of the most pure essence of nativity
of the Universe spreading through air

The winds are blowing lights of the Moons and from the Suns
I sink into the beauty of desperation
of the pace of the ache of the aces of every spirit

Closed eyes the view is preposterous
the marvels of existence
that no one has ever been able to really write about
and from this ungraspable conscience

is draped an Atlas
the creature holding space
over the maps of unseen bodies

       Chapter two
       Sorrowed empress : dormant eyelashes

From the tears of everything
the story of everywhere
omnipresent torpor and
lifeless fantasies
ascending from the ghosts of corrupted stories
and also
arising out of your survey
the one survey that you call rules

In your tale the princess awaits
the solid monarch -
immobile she is
with no will she lies
asleep her body is
dead her spirit is
her only existence stands
in his hands
and the delivery
of a kiss
she is forced to wish

Sorrowed bricks
on the lands of domination
and wombs fragilised by imposed memoirs

She is no princess
and the virile monarch
picked the wrong girl
behind dormant eyelashes
here stands the Sorrowed Empress
lost within nebulous strings

        Chapter three
        The riot : transforming anguish into threads

Empress from the night woke up
under sparkles of daydreams
and within the obscurity of gloom
in the curve of darkness
Sorrowed Empress witnesses her own gaze :
she can

No one other than herself is on her path
she kisses her own hand
and from the mysteries of maps
unseen bodies are now
birds with wide white feathers
and her hands have become
flying creatures

Her teeth are pointed in the shape of anger
who put her to sleep ?
why did they poison her ?
why did they make her suffocate ?
why did they condemn her to have no willpower ?
why is she alone imprisoned in this tower ?

From indignation
she screams
and the lands shiver
and the waves shake
and the trees convulse
the tower breaks
she is now
on the streets of tyranny
the country of toxic rules
yet she is now

The riot goes as follows :

she walks and from the walk she breathes and from the breath there is power and from the domination there is essence of life and from the rapes there is resilience and from the power of domination she can break free and from the lands of pain the sorrow can merge and pain can heal and from the mouth she can feel
the taste of her pointed teeth

she walks and she stands and her shoulders move back and her gaze takes over the streets of despair and from the body of her breast she breathes and
she grows into space
from the snake of lies
she has become
the empress with breasts shaped as pears

She walks and the princess dress
becomes threads of power
woven with ferocity
fibre of hope
and sewn with resistance
and so much courage that every breathable unseen spirit rises
with her
and she turns her head
and they are thousands
standing strong
fist in the sky

screaming freedom in silence
so loud that the Moon wakes up
and whispers :

and love
spreads over skins
and toxic fantasies
are becoming
garments of freedom

tonight anguish has become
sewn into
dresses of power

        Chapter four
        From the fog : DEAR MYTH, WE SALUTE YOU

Venturing into the detonation
of dead flowers
and faded reveries
I can hear them laughing
and not believing in tales
legends are just stories, right ?

But I can see the dress of power
courageous Sorrowed Empress
has become the heroine of the dead bones
growing back as graceful origins
berries of new images and new
and night spectres

I can see the field of these thousand flowers
The witch murmurs to me :
“Do you feel it?”

And I can say that, Yes, I can feel it

And from the power of stories
of words
legends can rise
while we still believe in them

so tonight I proclaim
“Dear myth, we salute you”.

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