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.
seed
The texts are the blades of grass and the grasses of my mental meadow. They grow anarchically and intertwine in a tight weave.
Whether it is scenic, textual, sound, visual or graphic, my art is exclusively sexual. It is rooted in a fascination with our bodies.
I make my soil fertile and exhaust my need to write, which is like a surplus of seed. Every day I unload a full bucket of it into these pages.
To decry sexual exhibition is to deny the reality of coitus, the most banal of our realities, in favour of an illusion of self, the mother of all violence.
I am a plant, an animal, an asteroid or a living room bench... I am whatever my imagination can make of me.
Yes, since childhood, rape is life, but life is also what we want to do with it so that our symbolic parents become ghosts.