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My sting ray or my stingray, depending on the requirements of the moment © David Noir

Journal des Parques J-45

I have a demand that is only meant to be met: that artistic objects be created and promoted in the form of stage, film, sound, literature ... as I conceive and understand them.

Everything else is at best indifferent to me, and at worst, irritates me if it goes against my work, slows me down, handicaps me or wastes my time.

All that remains to be done is to fit human relationships into the interstices; for the most part today, cigarette papers slipped between my marble blocks.

In these periods I definitely have no patience with other people's narcissism.

To use a ready-made expression of the time, I am in warrior mode. So there is little to say or communicate today. One of those rare days, exceptional for me, when I have no other constraints or appointments than those I organise with my own work. As the only labourer on my gigantic site, I find myself alone at the foot of my pyramid, which is still camouflaged by numerous scaffolding.

Do they even know what it's like to work for the majority of people I deal with on a daily basis? I have the impression that they do not. Not in my opinion; not where I hear it.

I am juggling my paltry, almost fictitious budgets; what I plan to do in two hours takes two days; I have only two arms at my disposal. Nothing will ever be quite ready, as usual. In fact, everything will be ready, as it always is, but at the cost of so many tears, of such a final effort, that the emerging project will at first be nothing more than the belched cry of my last forces at play. How could there not be such a gap with the others, whose strutting around like imbecilic fowl I will feel blind to my time, which is flowing in fine grey sand, trampled under their clawed feet grotesquely scratching the ground?

The demand makes his whole life a solitary crusade, but at the same time gives him spaces and times scattered with sublime joys.

Demanding is a drug that we instill daily in all our orifices and by capillary action, under the skin of our beating temples, when we look at ourselves in the mirror. At times, we are joined by people who pass by and understand. These settle for a day or ten years; a few others bivouac around you for life. The latter are male or female companions, solitary cubs, passing fawns looking for themselves or old hogs hanging around in search of some food. The arid and magnificent desert of the spirit of creation connects us, at a distance and without words. The rest of humanity, then, is only made up of puppets who are agitated in their discomfiture.

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.

This Post Has 2 Comments

  1. Patrick Speck

    What a beautiful description of the solitary Artist (consubstantial link between Art and Solitude) working, thus working, and, in fact, warring against the elements on the one hand and against the immobility on the other hand. It is precisely from this inertia of the majority, and from this impossibility to fit into the mould, that the creative wings are given for a flight towards the coloured heights and thus to flee the abyss of the universal consensus.

    1. David Noir

      Thank you. Yes, you have to flap your wings and be more like a hummingbird than a golden eagle, at least to negotiate your way out of the abyss, which requires a good little heart, and hopefully it will hold up 😉

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