Once upon a time there was a wild, intoxicating and resistant rose. Her root reached the inner space in which the air, water or ratio have never reached before.
She was feeding herself with dreams, imagination and love, all hidden in the dark. She was feeding on sounds made by rain, on music lit by the sun, on motions she defied the wind.
She was a black and a very different rose, with two or three visible and countless invisible thorns. She was a wild rose with a strong scent and poisoned flavor, bold and different. She was raised in the field covered with flowers with sweet taste and inviting smell.
Flowers have never understood the rose, and the rose herself has never tried to understand flowers. And that’s why she tried, she pranced, she strived to reach the heights so that she could touch the stars, to dance with them and become one.
When the dark covered the meadow, when flowers lost their scent, when illusion lost its blossoming, the rose became a dark red, spreaded its petals and started its game. She indulged herself into the dance and her real) nature.
Being brought by the music coming from the distance and by the motion coming from the deep, she was travelling through time and space on her fingertips, barefoot, wrapped in long soft silk. She was flaunting in the wind, under the moonlight and bitterness she was carrying in herself.
During that trip she lost her two burgeons. They fell off at the same time, and sunk on the bottom of Seine and her soul. Wrapped in black silk and black thoughts, obsessed with music and melancholy, she continued writing in movements her story of music, created by soul filled with emotions.
Enchanted and driven by illusion of love, by body that follows, by heart that suffers, by awakening touch, she danced, levitated and suddenly landed.
Cette nuit, sous la lune /That night, under the Moon/
That night, under the moonlight, the Rose fell on the streets of St. Petersburgh. Blue-eyed rose performed her dance with scarf, a dance so daring, intriguing, seductive. My life. Her body language, her austere scent and seductive look enchanted an Angel or Devil.
She woke passion and poetry in Angel, and she woke madness in Devil. Angel danced with words, he loved her with all his heart, observing her motions with passion.
Rose didn’t speak the language of the Angel, Angel didn’t speak the language of the Rose. They spoke and loved each other by the language of music and dance driven by passion.
Rose and Angel were brought to a far different continent. Rose was blooming, seducing and dancing with her scarf, creating new art. She was conquering new spaces, with her body and motions she was writing new pages of history and tales. Angel was trotting, stumbling, falling apart, losing rhythm, words and his Rose.
Angel turned into a Devil, he teared the petals, he broke her thorns. He turned himself to alcohol and requiem she could not dance with. He wrapped the scarf, roses scarf, poured some blood, moved apart with his words, his verses, with her and life.
Rose lost the scent of a woman, taste of the passion. She was fading slowly, in the rhythm of the music that her body followed – those few droplets of life and hope left, and lots of alcohol drops.
Clair de lune /Bright Moon/
In the night of the full Moon, at the rim of Nice, the rose put her scarf on, looked at her friends and said: “Goodbye my friends, I’m leaving for eternal glory. ” She sat in her ”Bugatti”, and left forever.
Behind the Rose there were scarf, mystery and history left.