Marie Losier

Marie Losier’s laughter is like shattering glass—the kind that breaks when a whole lot of glass shatters all at once. It’s the sound of a pyramid of glasses crashing down from the sideboard because someone tripped (or maybe was pushed). It’s a laugh full of joy, and it’s a laugh fraught with disaster. Everything Marie Losier films, edits, shoots, draws, sculpts, dreams, says, sews, unsews, undoes, or patches together is likewise made up of joy and catastrophe. The catastrophe that makes joy strange, unsettling, dangerous, and the joy that turns the catastrophe into its own milk, butter, and sugar. Everything that is shot eventually drills a hole and shapes something, by dint of being shot. Shooting makes holes.  Marie Losier shoots and makes holes, using the camera as a punch. But what does she hole? Time, reality, her own nightmares: everything. Everything is a shot, therefore, everything is a hole. Keyholes (a story of the eye), stitching holes (it’s Braille), sutures and holes in the film reel. Holes in the colors of drawings, drained half-white. Holes in death and holes in the trunk (the tree big cunt and love buttholes ). A spiritualist record player and an extra turn of the question—what question?

Marie Losier, when she isn’t shooting, what does she do? She  goes on shooting (turning death inside out  like a glove, then returns to childhood, capricious and cruel, sovereign and crowned), she goes on shooting   imagination and attention, and then that hell of lot of record sleeves gleaned from garage sales).  She paradoxically immortalizes her tribe, whose members she lays down forever, derisory, sensual, and princely figures, flanked by fetish objects and unconventional obsessions: wait and see. Her friends, her lovers, her buddies, her elected brothers and sisters, whom she has always transformed into movie icons, into fairy-tale characters, into pharaoh-tramps, heroes of a homemade mythology: now she engraves them directly onto the skin in outfits, strange, horrific,  tender and reversible tattoos. It must be pointed out today just how much Marie Losier’s art is a blind belief in friendship: her friends, her lovers, her buddies, her chosen brothers and sisters, living or dead, dying or soon to be, are her court of miracles and her Noah’s Ark. They are her subjects, her objects, the living material of her magic tricks, of her merry-go-round. Like them, spin around as you journey through Marie Losier’s fairground and mediumistic spaces.

                                                                                                                       Sing Sing

Marie Losier
Anouk, 2026
Simon enceinte
pen and watercolor on paper
84 x 42 cm

Marie Losier
Oui!, 2026
Victor Zebo
pen, watercolor and collage on paper
100 x 58  cm