They tell me that Ody Saban exists where you least expect her-there, between the line that stretches up and curves back down ; or there in the circle that circles itself endlessly in search of a face, a face that mesmerizes. Here or there, here and there, her heart is the pulsation of her line, and between?—between betweens?—she is the one who laughs, sighs, scrams, who whirls the songs of her hands.
Ody Saban comes at you, sincere as a whiplash on ready flesh, or as quiet as a tear that trembles on the tips of the eyelashes in orgasm.
And when her masks explode, when all that keeps her from the dreams that create her, and that she create, recreating herself again and again, vanish... the dust of her passage glitters very much like the stars a child might snare, drawing herself into
Make no mistake: Ody Saban possesses herself as much as she dispossesses the world in search of the child she is not.
There she is! Fou folie in the tropic winds that rush from wells everywhere...
Catch her if you can...
New York, June 1998