There is no project, there is no object. It will always be like that for me from now on. Because the canvas enlarges and stretches the weave of my mental space to the point of making new skins that do not need to be sewn together.

Skins for sale | "Les Camps de l'Amor" | Photo © David Noir
Skins for sale | "Les Camps de l'Amor" | Photo © David Noir
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Neither the linearity of the paper, page after page, nor what is inspired by it, is sufficient to tell what we have to say

Everything is in the image of the bygone figuration of a certain course of time. Each period has its own techniques and modes of narration. They reflect a unique vision perceived through a prism specific to a given period. But the two dimensions of a sheet of paper are no longer enough to write nowadays. It is necessary to be able to engrave in the thickness, on the edge of the support. Many of us have been waiting for this propitious moment, the era of simultaneity, of times, of genres, of opposites, to be able to start sculpting our ideas again. Today, my 30-inch diagonal screen has become too small. Even my two screens placed side by side, a pattern imitated from my superimposed notebooks, fail to display this process properly. Even a screen the size of my wall would prove unfit to allow a reading mode that reflects my thought pattern. Framed, everything that my gaze can embrace is now fatally narrowed. The frame is no longer an acceptable border. It is no longer a question of going beyond it, of making it indistinct or breaking it, but of ingesting it. To think of oneself as both this frame, its subject and its canvas, but also what could belong to the painting but is not yet there; the immediate off-field. And also everything that will never be there. The conception has become, in effect, wider than our original natural gaze is capable of figuring out, to allow us to build the imagination of a new mental space. Our physical perceptions in this regard hold us back; they are no longer our referents. This is what it means to grow old, but also to evolve. This means that the information captured by our physical receptors can no longer suffice to build a reliable model of our conception of things. But - and this is where something new comes in - if we are careful, we feel it has been augmented by one or even two additional dimensions. How then can we still 'fit' into boxes that are at best 20 or 30 years old and in most cases based on references dating back more than two centuries? It would be much easier if we could do it like we did just now, in the recent past, just before it happened. For my part, I don't see how I can sacrifice it any more. I have grown so much in spite of myself in such a short time that, as if by some vague theory - mythology of the infinitely large and the curved universe - in front of me, so wide open, in a body as wide open as possible - whatever its limits - now I can see my back.

Yes, what does it matter what the physical limits of the body are today, since our very thought exceeds it and dislocates its flesh by a powerful remaking into a new matter, entirely an extension of the brain. New practices, new habits, new synaptic connections, new thinking, new sensitivity.

From then on, no theatre would be able to represent "this" theatre, since no fiction has, for the time being, begun to tell the story of this new idea of being and of the supposed real, this impulse beyond ordinary creativity, which invents a space and a dilation of time that it was previously impossible for us to imagine; which suddenly graces us with the eyes of the owl and a 360° rotation of the head. But it is not only the eyes that are torn apart by sustained deformations, like the effects of oblong magnifying glasses stretching the flats and angles of faces in magnifying mirrors. The skin merges with the mind. This new head has absorbed the body. Will it be able to assert itself more powerful than the old one in extinguishing the pain of physical sensations? Will it be mental torture due to an imagination thousands of times superior to the capacities of 'real' feeling, or will it exalt the physical by a mind that encompasses it and guides it more and more skilfully? Magic of the virtual, the power of the family sex (by which I mean the ordinary coupleIn my opinion, the idea of a "group" (i.e. not connected to the group, nor to any creative utility, nor to the world of social networks) is already (and for a long time in my opinion) completely obsolete. In short, it becomes an interesting choice whether one will (in the sense of the want (personal) to exist on the web or not, and in what way, on what scale (intimate, public, professional ... other categories to be invented or discovered).

Now my brain is spreading like a parchment skin on which I lie down all over

My forward hands push the folds of skin from my back to the nape of my neck, like a stretching cat. Like a pie crust, stretched to the limits of its elasticity, is ready to cover the surrounding space far beyond the edges of the mould designed to shape it.

This is the body now: a head wrapped up in itself. And everything else belongs to it.

There is no project, there is no object. This will always be the case in this instance. This text does not stop here; this text will continue elsewhere. It has no title, it has no fixity, it has no subject. It has as many titles as it will be nice to have, like as many evening gowns in which it will be pleasant to appear. The pleasure lies there. All that I deliver here is the content of a ladle of text that I take from my large bowl. The whole is taken from Scrapbooking, text and shape cycle. I don't think it has a beginning. I don't wish it to have an end. He is a stretched, pulled, distended dough, like all of us, in his mess.