In India, it was an afternoon, in a market in the state of Orissa*, not far from Puri, the holy city of the Jagannath temple.

The light was soft, slightly powdery too.
He was sitting on the ground, surrounded by small bowls of pigment, colours of almost unreal density: red, saffron, yellow, incandescent pink.

He said nothing. His hands measured, transferred, wrapped each powder with an ancient slowness.

And then, he looked at me.

A honey-coloured gaze.

Deep, calm, almost golden. He invited me to photograph him.

Without a word.We recognised each other, without knowing each other.

Years later, in my studio, that gaze returned. Not a clear image, a sensation.

I was shaping a hollow form, oval, peaceful.

I laid down a warm yellow, not the colour of the powder, but of the light in his eyes.

That is where this proto colour was born.
Without a plan.

As a silent response to a quiet memory.

I don’t seek to represent things.

I seek to translate what was felt, and to transform it.

To give birth to forms that speak without words.

It’s not an evocation. It’s not only a memory.

It’s an inner imprint.

*The state officially changed its name from Orissa to Odisha in 2011. In this book, the historical name Orissa is used when referring to events that took place before the change.