Childhood
It is the face of a child. A boy. Ten, perhaps twelve years old.
He looks straight into the lens. On his mouth, the hint of a smile that is not quite one. The light brings out every relief of his skin, the scars, and the drawing of his football placed at the centre of his forehead.
His face is covered with silhouettes with rectangular bodies and slender legs, players arranged like on a pitch. The child’s sketches organise themselves like a graphic system.
The drawings are sharp, the face is sharp. It feels as if we are seeing the inside of the boy, a place where something has been inscribed even before words arrived.
Do these drawings come from him, or do they come from the world? Are they his dreams, his games, his attempts to understand?
This portrait speaks of childhood at the threshold of life. The moment when the world begins to write, even before one knows how to respond.

Childhood
It is the face of a boy. He looks straight at us, without pretending. On his face, there is his football. And all his drawings of players, with their numbers and their positions on the pitch.
You can clearly see his face. And you can clearly see his drawings. It feels like looking inside his head, like he thinks in drawings.
Sometimes, when you are a child, you understand things. So you draw them, because you don’t feel like using words to explain them.