Whore and gardener, Lazare Lazarus draws bodies that open like windows onto clumps of burning garrigue, where the limestone heats under the agaves erected like temples, where the prickly pear cactus bleed in the sun, and knock against the shore, where the pines, flattened in the hollow of the scree, give off scents of cum and resin. Lazare imagines moving lands to collect the memory of bodies and recount our struggling desires. Herbariums, etchings, serigraphs, so many chapels to meditate and happily band with the landscape.
