Philippe Mayaux is like a free-fall parachutist, capable of the craziest pirouettes. Now this peerless stuntman indulges himself by landing systematically on his front, in a deliberately grotesque posture, copiously splashing the surroundings of the pool.
Painter of placebos for domestic use, sculptor of electric logs, poet of the ‘fire which burns in a plasterboard hearth’, technician of the endless screw, originator of ‘l’avancée du Désert’, Philippe Mayaux is a magnificent traitor. He makes us touch the sublime in order the better to break the toys which fascinate us. He flatters. He penetrates. And he starts again.