You are dead! Game over

PARKS - INSTRUCTIONS FOR USE - part 3

Like in video games: level change (cling!)

The definition of platform game In its principle, according to Wikipedia says: "the emphasis is on the player's ability to control the movement of his avatar.

My avatars I would say in this case and I would express the synthesis of my project by a sentence of the type: By building the walls of a bobsleigh track, I want to order the random.

Do you understand this sentence?

It sums up my approach in my eyes. A slippery gutter, unique and built for the occasion, following the relief of the ground and in which everything can rush and take speed at the frantic and chaotic rhythm of the vibrations of the bodies projected inside.

This is my most current definition of the scene I want to see exist.

A cosmic hullabaloo, with well-thought-out physical laws nevertheless, within which fishing for images and sounds is enough to build the story.

It's all about the waves and vibrations, so it's the spin position. This is my favourite moment in the programme of my washing machine. The sound intensifies, becomes strident as if to warn that it's happening, that we're going into supersonic speed. The household robot, which had been quiet until then, like a good old dog doing its job as a guard, barking softly in a hoarse voice at passing strangers, almost for form's sake, suddenly turns into a fury, all fangs out. The machine moves by itself; it dances, waltzes on the kitchen floor, shakes the walls and pipes of the building, which echo the operation in the neighbouring floors.

Chaos in a can. Here too, I seem to be talking about theatre.

There is something rare there, like the sound of some amps; something rough and still primitive from the technology that I like. I was lucky enough when I lived in the country to see one of these machines at the end of its life, suddenly possessed by the demon during this famous final spinning phase.

The little washing machine, as if suddenly endowed with a personality, emerged from its box between the fridge and the sink and started coming towards me, who was standing by the door, all sheet metal out. It was the case of saying it, because, before giving up the soul which it was then - nobody would have doubted it - really endowed, its concrete organ serving as counterweight, broke its anchoring in the storm and came to sink from the inside the side wall of the beast. It was over. With a terrible crash, it had died before my eyes, its side pierced by the edge of a monstrous cylinder that now deformed its body, whose enamel had cracked under the violent pressure at the site of impact.

Poetic exploitation of the everyday. Life, decay, death and rebirth of our environment; modern life remains riddled with romantic events no matter what we say. You have to make theatre of everything to realize this and above all, oh never, never, never try to transpose the whole of life to the theatre. Lord of the arts, if you exist, spare us the hollow narratives so that we can only favour the irruption of events. So be it, as Mylène Farmer would say.

3 phases for the first group of dates. The third:

22 April: PASSIONATE ATTRACTION

I have indicated on the site:

Orientation of the improvisations, choice of texts : free associations, attempts at harmony, instinctive attractions, trials 

There you are again! It's only a short step from our neurons to our skins. It's like in the subway sometimes. Do you think you can make love with a little art and just that thrill?

The expression passionate attraction is directly borrowed from a concept of Charles Fourrier, who would like beings to attract each other according to laws identical to those of the physics of bodies. I let you dig deeper if you want to know more. What interests me in this matter is the idea that a coherence, a harmony in the musical sense, with all the variability of interpretations that this entails, can arise from the natural movement of things and individuals. It is not necessary to counteract this by a constraining and fixed construction for a work to be born, and therefore for the identity ofanother thing from "known ingredients". It is obviously not a new idea to apply random movement to creation. I don't pretend to lead the way of contemporary arts again with my modest stride. I simply wish to experiment with the guides I propose, which should be seen as magnets of all sizes, brought together to create various electromagnetic interactions. One could also see my device more simply as that of the bumper cars, in permanent contact with a sky of wire mesh covered with electricity providing them with the energy necessary for the game to come alive; the impulse of each vehicle being given by the individual drivers, according to their desires, impulses and reactions.

My trust in others, in the commonly understood sense of the word, has been totally dissolved for several years. I say "yet" because one might expect that such a "killing game" would require a sense of shared empathy to engage in it. This is not the case, and that's okay. One can only be disappointed if one has ever planned anything. As for me, I try not to do anything like that anymore and I am fully satisfied with the chance that happens in the heart of my arena. "No more total chance, then..." one might be tempted to say. Absolutely so, I would reply, because the elaboration of rules does not thwart the emergence of the unforeseeable; would we otherwise speak of "games of chance"? The title of Mallarmé's famous poem,  A throw of the dice will never abolish chanceis there to remind us.

This desired chance is often confused by actors in search of improvisation with its exact opposite, their own will to invent.

My project is in no way, let's be clear, a field of experimentation delivered, generously offered - and in the name of what credible reality would it be - to the pure narcissistic fantasy of individuals in love with their pleasure. I wouldn't give a damn about other people's pleasure. No more than mine. I haven't been here to enjoy for a long time. I come here to "see".

As I expressed in the previous post, my team and I will be visiting "others" and not quite the other way around. Our vehicles are the sciences of words and bodies, not the flat trust that would make the connections. Bullshit, the shameless lie of human relationships. The only trust that could make sense would be the one in one's own capacity not to want to destroy. I might as well say that, from my point of view, we are both far from it. Better to put our trust in the fantastic randomness of passionate attraction than in the false rigor of the link. The self-consciousnessThe kinetic force of fear, the leaden counterweight of our humanity, inhabits bodies and beings. As in the case of the unsuspected, until the catastrophe, cement wheel of my nice washing machine, the kinetic force of the fear of what we are, drags at high speed our acts and our thoughts. There is little to do about it, except to be aware of it. Art is a small thing, the day the car, under the centrifugal force, breaks away from the merry-go-round. Terror has its weight. Washing, rinsing, softening, spinning... the easy and amusing metaphor can thus continue from cycle to cycle to figure the anecdote of our humming lives. It's a bit like the subway, work, sleep of our appearances, fighting against wear and tear and dullness, always being refurbished. A beautiful smile as a poster; the show can begin! "How are you? - I'm fine! - Average ... Great ... Not great ... And you? "Everything is said in a few words and it's enough to give the change from day to day. We were sincere; we delivered our feeling of today like a horoscope; and life is still great, isn't it?

I'm sorry if I don't care what you see; what happens or doesn't happen on stage.

To devote myself to the preparation of these ParquesFor me, writing the diary is like living a whole life and taming its death. It is even experiencing psychic death, so much so that one idea is dead the next; so much so that each day is a whole day without sacrifice to ordinary banality. It is both difficult and irrevocable. Difficult because it is irrevocable. Never have I felt so much the weight of the past hours - their density, I should say - coming crashing to the ground like water drops filmed in slow motion, in the deafening sound of a post-synchronized rumble.

Difficult but not painful. The difference is significant. No pain in surveying the rock, the peak that I set as my goal. Are my muscles stronger than usual? Does my mental tone support my will better? On the contrary. I no longer have the strength to resist that I was able to find in myself in the past.

The whole answer is there. I no longer have this resistance because it is no longer so necessary. Simply because resisting the resistance of others, the negation, the questioning of my strength by the "outside" is no longer important to me. I struggle but I no longer fight. I have stopped trying to convince by abandoning my own need to believe. I notice that, incredibly, one suddenly emerges victorious from these struggles that seemed interminable, taking up the space of a whole life. One of those many irredeemable deaths that I mentioned. You push on and on, and then all of a sudden, one day it passes and you hardly think about it anymore. Parts of oneself disintegrate and it is lightened, modified, that one looks again at one's existence in the world. This does not mean accepting to be, letting everything happen blissfully in the moments of one's life. On the contrary, nothing passes through without a rigorous customs check, only that it happens by itself; without effort. Perhaps it takes all these years to trust one's instincts in spite of hesitations and fragilities in contact with one's surroundings. The only good advice I know is to be yourself and not believe you owe anything to anyone. A lot of moralist nonsense derived from psychoanalysis has sold us love as a fight against oneself, as a work of acceptance of the other. This famous other that I only care about if he's having fun with me. I don't know who he is or what he wants, and I'll never have any way to remedy the obscurity of these multiple areas. Do they even exist? Peaceful love is unimportant; that is its strength. It will come, dwell, or go away; there is no way to compel it to inhabit our hearts. I am not talking about the one we receive, totally independent of our real feelings. Do we buy the love of others by trading down our true identity? Do we deny ourselves in order to preserve an apparent balance, camouflaging the terrible misery of contracts under duress? No, I am talking about the love that one is capable of feeling within oneself, for oneself, the universe and the simple effect of the to be. The attraction is beautiful from the simple momentary fact of the presence, even if it is to finally lead to the confrontation, the sometimes inevitable collision. It is up to each person to choose to love what happens for the better, and more rarely for the worse, if we listen to our nature. To share is not to interrupt by a break, an artifice, the spinning of the effects of reality. There is no need for the ugliness of voluntarism to animate it or measure its impact. Glory is nourished by peace and by the adequate distance established between all things.

to be continued...