Art mort, smile for me!
★ The Extravagant Performance Show! ★
Show your FRASQ is a program that brings together monthly performers who are specifically asked not to worry about "making art" .
The first night's attendees:
Bernard BOUSQUET - Sarah CASSENTI - Sonia CODHANT - Lotus EDDE-KHOURI - Deed JULIUS & Olivier CHEBAB - Julien HAGUENAUER - Thomas LAROPPE - Cyril LECLERC - Christophe MACÉ - Julie MONDOR - David NOIR - Élizabeth SAINT-JALMES - Delphine SANDOZ - Biño SAUITZVY and 10 apprentices from the Académie Fratellini* - Alessia SINISCALCHI - Adrien SOLIS - Alberto SORBELLI - Anna TEN & Louis LABADENS - Nadia VADORI-GAUTHIER & Margaux AMOROS
*Rémi Bolard, Camille Bontout, Ephraïm Gacon Douard, Pierre-Maël Gourvennec, Valentino Martinetti, Riccardo Pedri, Anniina Peltovako, Gal Zdafee and Lorette Sauvet.
Did you see me? Smile!
It doesn't really matter what other people see of me. Whether it's my head or my ass, my work or the lack of it. It's not nihilistic to talk like that, it's a simple statement of what drives people.
Only the isolated individual sees and has seen and eventually thinks about it again. What one has seen and discovered in a group, in society is an image of what has been seen and discovered together. If the group is large in quantity, 100,000 people will tell each other the story that each person has told about what they have seen. They call this sharing; it could also be said to be a way of cultivating ignorance. Without it, there would be no mass.
Thus a legend or the absence of a legend is invented. Where there is legend, there will be belief, so that the story of what has not been seen by one can be told again and again for all.
From the memory of the isolated individual no legend will be born. Just a personal perception, a fantasy that will not become part of the story, will not make the story that everyone will want to tell.
On all fours
On all fours, it's easier to see your asshole. Ditto for the vulva of women. You can feel them, lick them, observe them just by standing behind them.
When he got up, the man freed his hands full time but acquired prudishness. He got up and got dressed. There the problems began with the appearance of appearances and their alterations brought to light. Make-up, clothes, everything is more visible standing up. The belly, the chest and the heart beating in it too; a bit dangerous as an evolution.
Hands free and brains against a less-offered ass and vulva. Here's the deal. Man's hands have made him a tool of labour rather than creation. The brain, a tool of command rather than reflection. Of the anus, the dirty and shameful backside of the face of sex.
The man is a piece balanced on its edge.
When it dies, it is laid down, sex towards the sky, since it cannot go backwards, towards the four-legged animal from which it came and which dies, by slumping down on its limbs and then left lying on its side.
The Art of the Rat who laughs at the art man in his rat lab
The lab is laughing where they practice sign language.
Deaf, tell me,
An uncle tells me about the Americas and the genocides that were committed
"Oral death of art dead!
I propose that artists dissolve into the suicide of their patent failure...
Did they save the world? »
Well, no," I replied.
And continue to lie to themselves about their well-measured aesthetics...
Badly dosed, not too lethal, hard to digest anyway...
Oral death, smile for me!
A prayer mat, a mouse pad itself lurking in the holes of our lives...
The rats leave the ship and develop gangrene...
On the bridge, more artists within a 100-meter radius
Then a raccoon goes into the shelter.
The mice may well replace the arts since the arts have not smiled at us.
Quite numerous, not rats, not sorted, black mice, white mice
There's no more time to stop the plague.
You should have thought of that before. Not to act for the sake of beauty, but to make life light.
What does raccoon say? Who cares what raccoon says?
Smile! Did you see me? Smile! Smile! Rather than smiling at yourself.
Listen to the prayer of the rat.
Matou seen. I'm off under my lace. "Song that all! Cat! "they say.
"Her pussy," she says, taking care of herself. I listen with a sigh of relief to the rain that pours down.
But rat bi tells you mass, but rat pass, away leaves you,
On all fours, hopping around, nothing will ever be the same again.
Rain the bombs within ourselves! Our legions are jumping out of planes. "Destroy! "she said.
Not rat for a penny, laughing at the daisy in the distance wins, without any further ado.
David Noir | All rights reserved
9:17 p.m., The Generator, Gentilly.
Nadia Vadori-Gauthier performs her daily minute of dance in front of me, carefree pasha rat, in the margins of Show your Frasq..
Discover Nadia's astonishing project on her site One minute of dancing a day and the hundreds of micro dances it performs year after year since January 14, 2015.