Supreme and marvelous arrogance: To live to get a hard-on and enjoy the world

My lonesome cowboy

Having too little time or depth, to launch myself today into a long and detailed article - which, I feel, I will miss; like what, anything really, can become a drug! - I will content myself with a small homage to two characters whose silhouettes have marked a turning point in my artistic and emotional life, in the same way that one irremediably folds the corner of a book page so as not to forget a sentence it contains. The discovery of the identity of their author and father was, of course, just as important, but as is often the case, I was, at first sight, more impressed by the work than by the person who gave birth to it, which is always more complex to grasp. This work, which is now famous (these same pieces I am about to talk about caused a scandal not long ago among our friends, the lovers of the Château de Versailles, where they were exhibited in 2010), was incarnated in my eyes through My Lonesome Cowboy and Hiropontwo "giant figurines" created by Takashi Murakami.

The first of these famous sculptures that fell before my eyes, when I entered the hall of Beaubourg, without suspecting what was going to happen to me, I don't know, maybe 15 years ago, represented in a staggering way for the young man I was, the boy I would have liked to be; bursting with vitality, incarnation of a fiery youth, irrigated by desire and the taste for freedom. Perhaps it wasn't too late to think about transferring?

This freedom, because of what it called for in the human in me, almost strangled me, so much its image seized me by the throat through this character. It was like a real encounter; as if this child, tail erect, proud of his youthful and sublime obscenity, was addressing me to say: "What are you looking at me like that for? Move over! Are you still there? What are you doing with your life, your body, your desire? Get a hard-on and flood the world! "and he would finish his harangue with a great burst of laughter that ended in this mischievous smile that still freezes his mouth today. I, as puny as a Cocteau, had come face to face with my Japanese Dargelos pupil, in resin! The shockwave did not stop there. Right next to him, barely a few meters behind, his female counterpart, a real figurehead of a ship in pieces of which he would have been the mast, was waiting for me, all nipples out. They were both there, like fantastically pagan deities, watching for my arrival since the dawn of time; radiating adolescent jubilation, in the purest flamboyant manga style. The attitudes and postures that he and they displayed, deserve to be as precisely described as they were sealed in me, with the power of an Excalibur piercing the hard rock, momentarily tenderized under the virulence of the penetration. These images and sensations still accompany me familiarly, like a balm relieving the bruises that the friction of my contrite and narrow life sometimes inflicts on me, when it clashes with my desire to blossom.

She, with her screaming blue hair, her foot raised backwards, her two immense mammary spheres projected forward, her nipples erect, from which spring, frozen in suspended time, two magnificent twists of immaculate milk winding in rings around her bust.

He, with his thick blond hair, conquering look, frank and exalted smile animating a pink face with the simple and clear contours of a little prince who would have been stripped naked, points insolently with one hand, his cock stretched towards a radiant future.

The protuberance of the glans discreetly tinted with purple, barely marked, in a very Japanese style, both provocative and modest, adds to this particular emotion aroused by an unrealistic and strong treatment, specific to manga that knows how to mix crudity and stylization of details. Like the girl's milk, a prodigious jet of semen draws extraordinary white arabesques above the young man's head.

Both made in the same resin, too perfectly smooth not to reveal an obscene and disturbing childhood of the flesh, they dominated me with their statures like the powerful forces of desire that they sublimely embodied and seemed to me more gigantic than they really were.

Contemplating them, stunned, tears came to my eyes, so much the work made tangible a proud and simple happiness, gloriously expelled by the playful gush of sexual energy and which cruelly reflected back to me the mirror of my miserable condition. I am speaking in particular of the boy because I regretted a little concerning the girl, once the first emotion had subsided, that the artist had, in a way, lost his way by inventing an equivalence between a rise in milk, certainly spectacular but whose idea remains associated with maternity, and feminine enjoyment. I would have preferred the two teenagers to be each other's exact counterpart and to have a cyprine ejaculate swirling in a delightful and infernal spiral, projected towards our amazed faces. But it was already beautiful like that and I put my concern for parity ecstasy aside, focusing my attention on the little guy. What could be more beautiful than that martial erection, imperturbable and fiercely determined, supported without fail by those provocative eyes, wide open to the multitude? How could one not dream of the life that was implicitly proposed there, really, as a model that could be envisaged through its 3D modelled representations? The thing was palpable, so to speak; like Michelangelo's David or Rodin's kiss, the icons were in volume; they were there for us to grasp; all we had to do was walk around them to conform our ambition to exist.

Alone, with or against all, I had already decided this in a more feverish way when I made my 1992 video, but this aesthetic shock strengthened my determination: now, it was certain; always, from now on, I would project my being under the true fire of this light. It was, after several aborted revelations in front of many other masterpieces and in spite of a host of others that came to fruition afterwards, finally the only really good and unique time in my life when I felt invaded by a religious feeling in the presence of incarnations emerging from inert matter.

Everything seemed clear from then on. The works were like the artists who produced them and the individuals who admired them: each one, at his or her own level, struggled, sometimes struggled and often gave up, to translate the sexual vitality that animated him or her and could maintain him or her in the flow of life within which he or she had been born. From that day on, it was necessary to understand this without delay and to take the start of the race in order to merge into the cohort of the vitaminized competitors. The urgency, as the years rolled by, would be to find wings to catch the gusts of oxygen that floated above the mass of the great number. The most skilful would understand how to immediately transmute their fantasies into gold to achieve this. The others, mediocre alchemists of which I was still a part, would always be wanderers vainly trying to give meaning, not to their existence, but to the communication between men who remained at ground level. Such detours were costly in terms of air supply. It was a mistake, I know it now; it turned out to be a mistake because, as a joke, there is no communication and the common world was whispering and bawling at the same time, without any concern for distinguishing between the meanings of the words that were ringing in my ears. I understood, a little late, but soon enough to get out of it without sinking completely, that the urgency recommended to flee from the mediocre complacency in which my fellows seemed to wallow without batting an eyelid. I discovered that, like nature, the universe of human civilizations was a proliferating rhizome with no other purpose than to feed its own race. I, a passing Frankenstein's monster, wondered where the shreds of corpses of which I felt I was the crudely sewn puppet could come from. If I wasn't careful, my heavy step would drag me backwards into a void with no tomorrow. How did the others make themselves believe that they existed?

By chance, Indecency appeared to me.

Impressive discovery and true Grail for those who want to seize it; like a magic potion, like a host, it allows me, each time, for a few hours only, to reinflate veins and muscles, to tone up my soul grieved by so much human nonsense. At a time when I have developed a taste for fantastical superheroes and heroines, eternally inspired by American society; certainly tortured, but often with the sole hope of returning to the norm, my inclination is more towards a carnal eucharist such as the fantastic Japanese creatures inspire me.

"Suck, this is my cock! Drink, this is my sperm! "

I would say, if I had the courage to die of pleasure to redeem the sins of my sisters and brothers, the worst of which is certainly to go against his impulse to be, without re-questioning the dogmas of a world to which it is up to all of us to constantly take care to improve and rebuild it.

The "Fates", the spinners of life or other one-day shows are there to give the opportunity for hypothetical small miracles to happen. What will we know about it, if at least we don't try the adventure for ourselves?

As another friend of mine, not really from the rising sun culture, but who, in his early days, found great inspiration to feed his appearance there, says: "you can be a hero... for just one day".