Polaroids by Camille Vivier

AVAILABLE IN JUNE

Two practices run in parallel: fashion commissions for major magazines, and a personal inquiry into the body and the still life. Out of that friction comes something harder to name — a visual language where sensuality, mystery, and poetry work not as atmosphere but as argument, always circling the same question: what passes between the living and the inanimate.

Polaroids brings together more than a hundred images from her personal archive. The format earns its place. The polaroid — immediate, unrepeatable, slightly fugitive — belongs naturally to a practice that has always lived at the edge of the staged and the found.

The nude is central, and the references are wide: fine art, pop culture, underground scenes, literature, comic strips, early Hollywood. Not as citation, but as a sustained fascination with women who take up space without apology. Her most recurrent subjects are bodybuilders — Sophie, Tjiki, Deborah — bodies consciously constructed, that carry the logic of sculpture into the photographic frame. Femininity here is plural, unstable, and never passive.

These figures share the frame with objects chosen for their symbolic weight as much as their form: monumental public sculptures, votive candles, modernist puppets, the biomechanical sets H.R. Giger built for Ridley Scott's Alien (1979). The pairings are unsettling. Human bodies and fabricated ones, flesh and matter, what breathes and what holds the memory of it.

Polaroids is the most private entry point into that world.