I was a little in love with you, just briefly. We were so close. Almost the same size. Both tall, both thin. Almost anorexic. We were a woman who would also like to be a man, and we were a man who would also like to be a woman. Almost loved one another. But it didn’t work. There was something heavy in between. Provence was too far away. I’ve never been there. I dreamt of the scents, the herbs, the animals, the bread, the wine. I dreamt of the landscapes, the sunsets, the hotels, the hideaways. But it didn’t work. There was something in between. Maybe the gender. Maybe we were too similar, but different. Instead you gave me an exhibition. I loved it: the tall, white gallery filled with colourful paintings. Very big ones and very small ones. Very beautiful and very terrible. Horror and bonne vie as neighbours. Both exposed on white walls. Sometimes the sunlight threw crosses – window mullions – wandering across the paintings. ­Crosses on the paintings at night too, from the spotlights. The crosses didn’t move at night. Gone again in the daytime. La bonne vie. The refugees. Simon Maurer