There are purses, and high heels, and purses again, and then flowers, babies, and shoes again, red shoes. Objects that stand alone, like newborns: they are at the center of the scene and yet abandoned, in a space of loneliness.
Sometimes Laetitia's pictures are like still lives with so much life that you feel you cannot cope with. Too much life, and flesh: everything is living, is blooming as there was a permanent explosion in ourselves that makes us living creatures. Female creatures who transform themselves, disguise their sadness under a fragile veil of flashy colors, and then die.
There is death: there are fetuses left alone outside the womb, abandoned bodies, mummies. It is odd how the word “mummy” is close to the word “mammy”. There are exhausted bodies that have ejected their energy through the immense creative effort of making another body, and now they’re bleeding: they are alone again.
There are Ingres and Delacroix and Bonnard, as art had always talked about the mystery of dying to live. Everything is there, expelled from within, crude and real. And yet delicate, weak and helpless. They need you.