Cendrine Rovini's Liquide Vermeil exhibition opened just a few hours ago at the Da-End gallery in Paris, and there couldn't possibly have been a better place for it. The high, shadowy spaces of the gallery, lacquered in black inks and softened by some red ones, welcomed the artist's delicate, minute and precious figures in a velvety, slightly Lynchian embrace. Cendrine's creatures are gentle, feminine fantasies of pencil and blood, their outlines so feeble that they feel almost permeable in their lush, overflowing sensitivity. Their pale, translucent skin blushes pink on their cheeks and their raven black curls reach out like tentacles in the clear atmosphere. They are caught at the beginning of an intimate, discreet metamorphosis, that of a bulb or a bud or a woman, secret and bizarre, familiar and wild, only a tiny little bit violent.