Moshé by Sandrine Lopez is something much more than a particular project.
Never does Moshé show anything, tell anything or claim anything. It is an experience, an asceticism, a form of groping in the night worlds.
Moshé could be this : a ceaselessly reiterated interrogation. A blinking look, shifting between curiosity and terror, into the depths of a being. And, no less, upon the unfathomable power of what keeps him standing before us, in flesh and spirit. Terribly naked, tragically fragile. And yet there, intensely so, despite the troubles, the hardships, the tragedies and the gazes.
The body, of course, is ever present. But a body exceeding its own outline, only manifesting itself as would a frail fire relentlessly offering its light over that extra measure of what ancient religions named the soul. Not much does justify this body. Everything seems to show that the burden of the world and History might have, might still, at any moment, crush and reduce him to nothing.
