Yesterday, guest of the Carolina Show at the Chaplin Cinema to talk about the " New Testicle ».

Surprising hostess, benevolent interviewer or bulldozer, depending on the person sitting in front of her, I was lucky enough to have her sympathy and to benefit from her pertinent questions about my work; the kind of questions that allow one to express oneself on themes that seem unlikely to be addressed between the numerous acts of the evening, mentalist prestidigitation, female comedian, opera or variety singers.

It is an amazing feat to have been able to make a sensitive place for my universe and to open a window for her audience, which she knows how to energetically take by the hand. Where one might expect the worst of the "people" shows, we discover instead the best of Carpentier-style entertainment, carried at arm's length by the energy of a Hispanic Mireille Dumas, with the build of a roadrunner clad in rhinestones. All the charm of a music-hall rediscovered, where Carolina, surrounded by his team of freaks united and devoted, from a Juan-Carlos, Bernardo-king of Spain deprived of language to the pianist of charm peroxidized Clayder-Man, lost of the 70s in our world, not less shrill, but without ideals. The whole thing was enhanced yesterday by the glow of Jose Cuneo's fireflies in boxes, little pieces of life imprisoned with their lights, exhibited at the Chaplin and which gave this evening an aura of poetic playfulness.

My testimony would not be honest if it did not mention my emotion to find the attentive swarming of the Tres with whom I had supervised Miguel-Ange, Carolina's godson, for the creation of his song show. Then, even if our boats can seem to sail on seas to the antipodes the ones of the others, the nature of what welds this small band of anachronistic appearance around their captain of ship Carolina, makes me feel closer to them than to many authors and directors who cross in the channels of the ports of the art.

The spirit of piracy is still the most precious safeguard against our natural temptation to want to be respectable one day and received with honors at the king's court. And so much the better if we will never shine where a part of us dreamed to be. It is the strength of those who are truly on the margins that they always deviate from the course that they believe they will be relieved to reach one day.

As I spotted her as a Las Vegas queen figurehead from the deck of my nut shell, I thought that Carolina might be heading to Divine with a twinge of guilt, just as she might have felt when she saw her dream of being the most beautiful woman in the world being carried by a garbage truck, rather than a Cadillac.

So be it. But for my part, that's how I saw Ed Wood riding his cinema, far ahead of Tim Burton and his aesthete mounts with a sure "bad taste". So, I can only wish the Carolina Show good wind, hoping that its furrow will always dig itself further towards the precipices that border the world and where the chaos of the real chimerical monsters reigns, in spite of the tugging of its secretly nostalgic look, which will see the coasts of the well-behaved marginality moving away. And thank you to the captain for this timeless evening, where my heart was surprised to still capsize deliciously under the waves of the surface of things, beyond the agitation of the stormy swirls, that the generous belly of her three-masted ship smoothes.