The little reason in my meadow
The texts are the blades of grass and the grasses of my mental meadow. They grow anarchically and intertwine in a tight weave.
Creation
What is my creation?
To create bridges spanning a river of metaphors and to interpret the movements of its bed in contact with the bathers who get wet in it
The texts are the blades of grass and the grasses of my mental meadow. They grow anarchically and intertwine in a tight weave.
A new free and raw blog, as a necessary refuge for the written word. A little secret but not stuttering and spontaneously readable for anyone who would like to come there.
"Childhood of art", not in the sense of simplicity (can childhood be simple?), but understood as the dawn of another form: the staging of a site.
I insist here on the value that I attach to arbitrariness as the salvation of poorly fruitful creative situations offered by apparent logic.
Opting for art is choosing to live under the totalitarian hold of a submissive god; one whose reign comes by absorption of whoever dominates him.
While looking for the solution, I'm suffocating in the Web and the 2-dimensional page. I hope for a third one for a non-linear narrative art.
Some improbable and primitive metamorphoses in search of those who aspire to be told only the nonsense of the stories.
Artists at fault, artists too weak, unable to save this world from a predatory terror... Artistic ultra-violence, where are you hiding?
Artists, the real ones who would have something to say, hate the world and won't say anything to it, right? And it's much better that way, isn't it?
One morning, or rather one night, a new blog was born in my little family of sites, a messed-up blog, designed to collect spelling mistakes with a ladle.