Tweeter

Marc Dubord

Photographer

Dubord overflows. It is full of ideas. Ideas that go beyond that and fly through the spaces unreal. Dubord Marc does not know more than we do, why things are what they are, then it looks for answers in the fragments of his memories of trunks in the attic of history. Small or great story, gossip or confidences, as a psychoanalysis of his own fancy grimacing is reappearing on the frame photos of her nightmares.
In all this welter of preposterous characters composed by Henri Alekan so surreal amalgam or Jan Saudek Photoshop, we do not know if they are pagan festivals or Carnival of Fools. It is in the North under the clouds, or in the studio of a Brueghel the elder who would play with fabrics transparency we see leather, leatherette or velvet, but the stamps and wallpapers, a fantasy world / fantasy.
Marc Dubord is empirically and methodical at a time. He pretends not to express, as if amused himself mistaken dogma. He disobeyed a whim to satisfy as much as anarchist fun to make believe that nothing is serious. No more Death than Love, no more sex than the family, no more art than mythological animals. Marc Dubord plays with anachronisms, juxtapositions scabrous, criminal gangs or self-righteous. It cons- adhesive transparent wind and storm, and the flesh brush, innocence and false modesty. When you look at the pictures of Mark Dubord, we begin to look down, sometimes embarrassed by his voyeuristic gaze, bordering the Grand Guignol. Images of captive news items from a world between, remanences weird dissonances and heckled come to be heard on these pictures mounted.
Naive or staggered, armed with a flashlight and a pen tablet, Marc Dubord visit the underground consciousness. It illuminates the shadow, or dark contrasts, from the base camp he moved to live face down on a honeymoon in barley sugar. Sometimes the obvious is obvious you as a werewolf in broad daylight: Marc Dubord a photographer is not realistic, it's a composer. It does not prove anything, prove anything, prove anything, no. Mystery hibernates in the cave of being, where lies the anima / animus that is within us. Such as postcards or conscripted as religious icons, sometimes kitsch and sometimes mature, sometimes cruel, sometimes grotesque or hybrid, the portraits he produces are imbued with a deep existential angst as much as a romance so popular Halloween. In its way, Marc Dubord tells fables in picture