Party for hate

The project was born out of betrayal and is shot through with it

I will come back to this. It hinges on the framework, depending on the case, coarse or subtle, of the form that this feeling leaves inside oneself when it imposes itself. For contrary to what is often reported, betrayal does not creep in, or so far upstream that it is impossible to discern it from the origins of the bond, on the very day when one is 'flashed' by the charm of the other. No, one fine day, it bursts like a purulent abscess in the face of the observer in love and fascinated by the subject of his love. What remains is a devastating and profound trace, an irradiated imprint, a forever uninhabitable expanse of his own heart. Did the transmutation of this turbulence into a zone of artistic tension occur 10 years ago, set in motion by a founding act, 6 years ago concretely by the creation of my JaZon Solos or 40 years ago as a result of a lost battle against the surrounding taboos? I don't really know anymore, because deep down, there are so many origins to the mortal deception, starting with the observation of one's own inability to unmask treachery. Its burning sap, nourished by the inputs of a lifetime of rubbing shoulders with others, runs through my psyche and feelings to that point. Betrayal of ideals, of myself, of friends, of my blind trust as a child; the traitor is not always a coward; he is sometimes even a hero of his kind. My traitor was such a hero. My betrayers, I should say, because more than a reproduction of the story from childhood to adulthood, it was in search of clones of my childish loves that I grew up. The most incredible thing is that I found them, almost identical both physically and mentally, replicas of the friends, girls and boys, who occupied my emotional universe and invaded my heart during my school years. Gone are the adults in this beautiful setting; did they ever exist there? Blind and deaf to the torments that were dragging me down before their eyes, they were unaware of my successive poisonings. As a survivor from a candour that was too pure and too far away, I could only mithridatize myself with the years, but I still miss a killer mind. The theatre and its good incentive practice of the collective have however provided me with frequent opportunities to put potential targets in play. I did not do it, often wrongly. I have no regrets. It would be enough for me today to have no qualms in order to get out of my own trap with the least amount of trouble; from this disabling position of getting things from people you don't want to direct. So my projects take this course. I only create the sadistic setting of a kind of "for hate" party, so that I can play, sing and dance quietly in my corner, in my Tarkovskian zone; far from my centre. If by chance I meet some wandering strangers with a kindly disposition and a sincere look, then why not? I would experience a moment of relief with them, with them, in my periphery. While waiting to see if it exists, it could well be "Edmond Dantes" who wrote this text, but I always sign ...
David