I knew Cathy VOGAN well.

I knew her in the courtyard of the building where 6 years earlier, we had founded the only broadcast facility in France that was dedicated to art - it was an extraordinary adventure where we had given our all, and received so much in return. I was in the studio, hacking at the shelves now laden with the many works of famous and unknown artists who like us, had used magnetic tape to lay down their dreams; their emotions; their fears, their despair; their life...

I bit my fingers until they were bleeding; I screamed out her name; I thought I'd never see her again. And then she appeared; a humble ghost limping pitiously through the night, humiliated by cruel men. I held her tightly in my arms and she fainted. She turned me into a creature of mud, and then left again.

I knew her from above: from a helicopter over the fertile canyons of Born Dead Baby in the North-West of Australia. I was holding a camera in each hand; she was down there in the tent, which they didn't have time to fold...

I knew her in a Belgian hotel room. She was hanging from the window ledge, laughing about letting go. It was unbearable and there wasn't even Canal + on the TV.





I knew her on a Sydney beach, watched her from the ocean bed, as polite sharks devoured pieces of my flesh: she was walking along the sand, joking with a certain Herr Doktor U. I knew her on a chair, on a table, on a bed; in a plane to Japan; in long grass infested by deadly spiders in the Blue Mountains; in the White Mountains under the oldest trees in the world.

I knew her radioactive. We were a couple in fusion. By day we made love like beasts on all fours over sophisticated machines. The night time too was ours.

I knew her on a chair, on a table, on a bed; in a plane to Japan; in long grass infested by deadly spiders in the Blue Mountains; in the White Mountains under the oldest trees in the world.

I knew her naked.................... I knew Cathy VOGAN well.