“We set out early. On either side of the stream filled with waterfalls, there was a kind of path, trees of every variety, enormous ferns, every kind of vegetation, becoming increasingly wild and impenetrable as one climbed towards the centre of the island.

The two of us were naked, with only a cloth around our waists and an axe in our hands. The silence was complete; the only sound was the plaintive murmur of the water over the rocks, as monotonous as silence itself. And there we were, the two of us, two friends: he, a young man, and I, almost an old man, in body and in soul, burdened by the vices of civilisation and lost illusions. His agile, animal-like body had harmonious forms and he walked ahead of me, like an asexual being.

From all that youth, from that perfect harmony with the nature surrounding us, emerged a beauty, a fragrance (noanoa), that enchanted my artist’s soul. From such a deeply rooted friendship, growing from the simple to the complex, love arose within me.

And we were alone, the two of us.

I had a kind of premonition of wrongdoing, a desire for the unknown, the awakening of evil. Then came the weariness of the role of the male, who must always be strong, protective. To be, for a moment, the weak being who loves and obeys.

I drew closer, disregarding all conventions, my temples throbbing.

The path had come to an end and we had to cross the river; at that moment, my companion turned around to face me. The androgynous figure had disappeared: he was truly a young man; his innocent eyes had the crystal-clear purity of the water. I immediately regained my calm and savoured with delight the freshness of the stream.

I plunged quickly into the undergrowth, which had grown increasingly wild; the boy continued on his way, his eyes still peaceful. He had understood nothing; I alone carried the burden of an evil thought. An entire civilisation had preceded me in wrongdoing and had educated me in it.”

Paul Gauguin, The Writings of a Savage

27 February, 2025. Berlin.