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The first imprints of art

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It feels like a cave. In the darkened entrance, a mineral projection of black and white images. Old Fords are sinking into the sands of the Sahara. The sun crackles on the discolored film. A bivouac in the middle of the desert. Burnished, enthusiastic faces. The wind swells the sails of a tent, the dunes are waves. An easel is anchored between two rocks. In the hollow of a cave, young painters leaning over their sketches. Opposite, one of the greatest enigmas of art: the paintings of the first men.

The eye lingers on the documentary, then flees towards a luminous breakthrough. And almost burns himself. From a monumental fresco springs the African sun. The colors ooze ocher. The paper has the texture of a rock, the paint crisscrosses the relief. A whirlwind of silhouettes cavalcade in this prehistoric desert. Men dancing and hunting, large and small antelopes, sharp zebras and amorphous shapes. A white shadow rises in the sky. We recoil in fear in front of a gigantic ivory elephant.

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