on the black iris

the iris chrysographes given by you, had to fall, one night, out of its vase, in a last surge of vigour, and break itself by rupturing its three barely blossoming flowers—but whose splendour had seemed previously monstrous to me—for me to love them, for me to take interest in them, wounded, and to begin to draw them, with a pen, with this same hand with which I type and each trait given to this screen seems to be the transcription of a word: tissues, transparencies, pleats, folds, veins, down

the (obstinate) examination of this flower is like a medical examination: first it’s the whole musculature which grafts itself onto the ossature, anatomy more than architecture, and here they are no longer swathes of pleated veils, but contractions and surges, bends, curls, scratches, tears, claws, cancers, and something more astonishing, in places the appearance of blood

but how to draw this wound of the flower, without a colour?

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