They’re never present. And yet, without them, nothing is possible.
In these unrelated places, silhouettes move in accordance with diversely coded rules and habits, leaving some space, albeit limited, for initiative. Everything is played out simultaneously in distinct time zones and different regions, or even continents.
And now, the movements and scenes become more precise, their contours clearer. At one end, in a rectangular surface allotted to a sport requiring a racket and high-level skill, a surface, marked by white lines which often cross at right angles on its grass surface, is a pleated white skirt from which two shapely and athletic legs emerge and remain in constant movement, mostly lateral, moving sometimes forwards, sometimes backwards, attempting to stay as firmly planted as possible, whatever the position of the ball. In this temple dedicated to a little yellow ball, the only sounds to be heard are those of the racket strings and muffled steps of the players. Meanwhile, in the crowded stands, the formless mass of spectators remains still, following the scene in attentive silence.
One of the women players prepares to serve. Not knowing what part of the game has been learned and what part is hers, it is impossible to assess the style. What is perceptible, however, is the interaction with space, the result of intensive training and a purely personal expression. One of the white skirts is at the net, surprised by a defensive lob which falls briskly behind her, just in front of the base line. A little later, it’s a shot to the feet which surprises her opponent, after several accelerations from the back of the court. Then, in the thick of the action, the server comes up to the net following a forehand shot, and the sideways dash of her counterpart is punctuated by a block of the wrist and a cross shot, which flirts with the sideline while staying just inside the court. The diversity of shots continues in a rhythm highlighting the precision and tenacity of sublime legs : straight forehand, lift, slice, top slice…forehand, slice, dead ball…cross shot dead ball…and the silhouette of the potential loser already turns to the base line, towards the serve about to be played, her long curved legs in white sports shoes making a quarter turn before positioning themselves behind the base line.
Mechanically, men’s hands sign contracts, their contracts, legal documents which invariably, or almost, stipulate numerous clauses synonymous to large, or even very large, amounts of money in the form of trusts…
There is much less light now, and a totally different space comes to view, announced, at first, by a peculiar ringing sound in its midst, a metallic sound which comes from a cage and its opening, and the bars of the entrance unlatch, pivoting on their partially oiled hinges ; bars which form the surface of the structure, and whose base consists of a few steps in order to make contact with the earth, down which a tall vertical silhouette, well-built and curved, descends step by step. The sound of heels – a kind of gentle clicking – rings out once, twice, and a third time before entering into contact with the earth and making a soberer, more discreet thud. A long, soft and firm hand has now let go of the bar closest to the entrance ; sculpted, naked legs deploy their movement ; a bust, naked as well, advances in the dim light, and voluminous black hair and black eyes too ; while a lush brown triangle appears naturally, mirrored by generous circular buttocks which temporarily invade the space, propelled by the combined muscles of thighs, hips and loins.
This woman, this lady of great stature, with long rounded shoulders, seems to be pursuing a precise goal, along a corridor, doubtless leading to a room where someone awaits. Shades of green dominate the different spaces perceived so far, intimate spaces which breathe a perfume of secrets, mysteries and the unknown. From the doorway, the green eyes of the vestal examine the interior of a large room occupied by a man, masked. The woman’s high-heeled black shoes are slightly out of line, paused or hesitating for an instant in an esthetic stance, a modest retreat of her right leg. Through the mask, the man’s eyes move, blink, becoming accustomed to this beautiful dream-like creature, a real-life creature which is now coming towards him, towards him and this inevitable scene ; a scene observed by hidden, omnipresent eyes…
Skirts, blouses, moving legs, high heels, nakedness, curves, cries of effort or lust, grass or hairs gliding on a human cylinder, while the negotiators continue to sign, tirelessly initialing, far from here, far from there, inside closed and silent offices … stamps, contracts, sums … yes, sums which stem from a continuous movement of the hand towards the right, aligning figures followed by numerous zeros which seem to proscribe all limits…
Finally, everything melds together, without the least faux pas it would seem. In the daylight, the slightly shiny face of the tennis player is strained with the effort as she takes her final steps to the service line from which she makes a right turn and repositions herself, legs bent again … in the artificial light directed on her face with its high cheekbones, the actress rises and falls on the man, expressing a certain satisfaction by virtue of her closed eyes and slightly open mouth, long brown hair thrown to one side of her neck.
Athletic, erotic…or maybe both…and the man’s hand, steady and sure, meticulously compiles and files the documents…