Air in the lungs and wind in the sails...
Enough to bivouac after the attacks and to take the air on a motorway area where you can park to enjoy the clear sky.
Running away and roaring
In our world, where everything is a matter of representation, rituals are hidden behind social pettiness. "And good day," says the shopkeeper.
Enough to bivouac after the attacks and to take the air on a motorway area where you can park to enjoy the clear sky.
Violence and harshness are in the air. "Fond d'âme mental", a poetic text written on November 1, 2015, before the terror came.
When you're shocked by anything that exists, it's because you've made up your mind about the world but you don't know anything about it.
The true individual venturing out of his isolation room, faints on contact with the air. He refuses to be legibly embodied in his words and deeds...
Start by undermining the basis of my nature. Set the moral high ground and wait for the... cement to set... the wide asses of the cows that live here...
Writing relieves the tension of over-thinking, stops the bleeding, cauterizes the sense, temporarily closes the still moist wound.
Artists die like so many other endangered species. Their territories are restricted, their voices are discreetly silenced.
I am thinking this morning of André Lazare, of his beautiful wife Patricia, of some of the members of the small team he had gathered around him.
Love is like an enriched ore. In its pure state, it destroys the inner self. To keep it at a distance is not selfishness, quite the contrary.
Scrap preparation | Its times of reflection, its moments of creation | Focus on the step by step implementation of a performance.