Dominique - Jat Batlle
Dominique
From the Selection of Menus: RSVP, VIP, RIP portfolio (5 of 12)
Less geographically anchored than other works in the series, “Dominique” reads like a private note — a whispered invitation or an anonymous love letter. The singular name floats across the piece, adorned with hints of a fine dining experience: wine pairings, amuse-bouches, and formal titles, all layered in Batlle’s fractured language.
There’s a subtle tension between precision and chaos here. Fine type meets erratic strokes; gold-leafed symbols clash with smeared ink. It’s as if Batlle is excavating a moment: the recollection of a night, a conversation, a dish that changed everything — or nothing at all.
“Dominique” evokes the intimacy of dining as a performance of identity. It’s about who we become when we order, when we toast, when we say nothing and just taste. The piece, like its title, resists full interpretation. It lingers.
Dominique
From the Selection of Menus: RSVP, VIP, RIP portfolio (5 of 12)
Less geographically anchored than other works in the series, “Dominique” reads like a private note — a whispered invitation or an anonymous love letter. The singular name floats across the piece, adorned with hints of a fine dining experience: wine pairings, amuse-bouches, and formal titles, all layered in Batlle’s fractured language.
There’s a subtle tension between precision and chaos here. Fine type meets erratic strokes; gold-leafed symbols clash with smeared ink. It’s as if Batlle is excavating a moment: the recollection of a night, a conversation, a dish that changed everything — or nothing at all.
“Dominique” evokes the intimacy of dining as a performance of identity. It’s about who we become when we order, when we toast, when we say nothing and just taste. The piece, like its title, resists full interpretation. It lingers.
Dominique
From the Selection of Menus: RSVP, VIP, RIP portfolio (5 of 12)
Less geographically anchored than other works in the series, “Dominique” reads like a private note — a whispered invitation or an anonymous love letter. The singular name floats across the piece, adorned with hints of a fine dining experience: wine pairings, amuse-bouches, and formal titles, all layered in Batlle’s fractured language.
There’s a subtle tension between precision and chaos here. Fine type meets erratic strokes; gold-leafed symbols clash with smeared ink. It’s as if Batlle is excavating a moment: the recollection of a night, a conversation, a dish that changed everything — or nothing at all.
“Dominique” evokes the intimacy of dining as a performance of identity. It’s about who we become when we order, when we toast, when we say nothing and just taste. The piece, like its title, resists full interpretation. It lingers.
