You are currently viewing Vitesse de ma lumière
David Noir | Choosing between idiocy and intelligence | Photo © Karine Lhémon | Espace Jemmapes

Speed of my light

Share this page

What is my intelligence made of?

The question rings loudly in my own ears.

However, it is not as philosophical as it seems, because it inevitably leads to a dead end, as the substance is not a measurable quantity but rather the specific qualities of this intelligence.

My first question, which I believe any conscious creature can answer, would therefore be:

What is my intelligence today?

And the one that comes immediately after:

How is it modified, shaped and stimulated by my time?

These questions have never seemed so topical to me. Why "current"?

Because they are "updated" daily. My brain gives me the feeling of being "updated" every morning I open my eyes.

The Internet, on the one hand, still him; always him; and on the other, echoing the voices that bring me the news in the form of information. The news, they say.

Halfway between these networks, my head.

David Noir | Choosing between idiocy and intelligence | Photo © Karine Lhémon | Espace Jemmapes
David Noir | Choosing between idiocy and intelligence | Photo © Karine Lhémon | Espace Jemmapes

So every morning and during the night, more than ever before, she is swarming. It never stops. It is attacked by stimuli of anxiety and excitement coming as much from my projection towards "the world" as from its intrusion into my micro-sphere.

In my landscape, no fiction; no more fiction for some years. I'm talking about those concocted by others and taking up almost all of art's space in the market. They have disintegrated with the illusion of ties and the lures of attachment.

Today, fiction seems to me to be a simple springboard for children who want to train their heads and their eyes. They are the first engines of the rocket. The ones used for take-off. They have to burn for as long as it takes to get the individual into orbit. Frictions; laborious fictions of the human imagination and imitations of reality are radically useless to me. There is much more astonishing elsewhere; in the perimeter of my mind; on its sensitive surface, interface with the world where it feeds on this real, also illusory, or what seems to be similar to it. There, my skull burns at high speed and consumes its carapace, waiting to shatter, one day, when the soft matter of my brain will be able to float away from the world, in the abyssal space of pure ectoplasmic minds.

Is it the combination of technological upheaval, my continued solo work and my ageing that is leading me to these perceptions?

Because each day now seems to me totally different from the previous one by the step that my evolution grants itself during these last 24 hours and at the same time absolutely similar to the one of the day before. It's because nothing or almost nothing seems to matter anymore, apart from the tenfold sensations of these cerebral stimuli. My body is not left out. The pressure is renewed, each day materialised in the form of internal pulsations pushing me to produce content. But the remarkable thing is not so much the content itself, far from it, of what I write, project or draw, as the new consideration I have for this material. Herein lies a particularly unprecedented phenomenon for me.

Previously, I might have thought 'work', somewhat foolishly, as museums flatly propose as a vision of an arts-oriented life (I don't like the word "dedicated" so often used, because there are many other things one does in one's life than art, unless everything comes under it; in which case, one should say "life" and not "work".).

However, since the advent of the Internet (even if the expression is overused, it seems to me adequate because it is both a reign and an era that is beginning), that is to say, yesterday, the "work" has tended to disappear in favour of "participation in the flows" of human data. This, in my opinion, is what changes the relationship of creation to the world. Creating a work was still valid until the early 2000s. It was an inheritance from the whole of human history, in whose filiation one could still try to inscribe oneself. As I write this, it no longer makes sense to me. The result is the instantaneous obsolescence of creations that think themselves to be in the continuity of this reading of history. I see them pass and explode in flight like incandescent meteors behind my window, before I have even had time to catch a glimpse of their nuances and what makes them different.

We are isolated individuals caught up in the same electron storm; my whole body follows the movement of the storm and for me it is good.

Through the electric wire, I escape.

David Noir | Frankenstein templar struck down | The hope in the intelligence of the creator suddenly put down | The Fleece sleeps | Photo © Karine Lhémon | The Generator
David Noir | Frankenstein templar struck down | Hope in the intelligence of the creator suddenly put down | The Fleece sleeps
Photo © Karine Lhémon | Le Générateur

David Noir

David Noir, performer, actor, author, director, singer, visual artist, video maker, sound designer, teacher... carries his polymorphous nudity and his costumed childhood under the eyes and ears of anyone who wants to see and hear.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.