More than ever, nudity alone is not enough

It doesn't matter if it's there or not. As much as pleasure and sex, it's a rearguard action to make it an issue today because it's as fashionable as the makeup tips on the web to feel pretty.

Undress or not, fuck or not, my friend; what does it matter, what consequences? Nudity is true in essence since early childhood; it is necessary, precisely to find the benefit of it, to take it over and no longer speak of it as an event. It is not the discovery of its strength that is sufficient to make it a point.

From 1998 to 2004, when the Cie Life is short The naked offensive in front of an audience seemed to me to be the only possible trigger to try to move this old jalopy, which was so atrociously tense under a false air of complicity or staid reflection, that was the theatre, to something else. I was, if not a forerunner, at least a visionary in the matter; I am not ashamed to say so. False modesty does me no good.

Salon humor and cardboard tragedy were still the salt of the intellect that made madwomen, old ladies and serious journalists swoon. The proof is, if you go to the theatre sometimes, that it hasn't changed much.

There are those who today think it glorious to blow up bombs and their own unfortunate existence with them, to strike at their flesh, at us and at others, at their supposed enemies, and to destroy the momentary and weak joy of being alive. Whatever their grievances against us, or rather, against history and our rulers, they have their reasons, but they are also wrong. Wrong to think that martyrs are mass-produced. Wrong to believe that modern power is acquired with weapons. What do they believe? I too explode, only to destroy the living simply for the sake of destroying it is a response of impotence to impotence. To relieve oneself of a tension as one makes oneself come by masturbating and to think that this changes the world is to be wrong. The difference is that when we jerk off it is not in the name of an ideology. Pulses against pulses, it can last a long time, that's for sure.

Of course, they are not the only ones who contribute in a more or less vicious way to mass murder; it's useless to list here all the social and professional categories who make this world as it is, demented and abject in many aspects, by going to work every day. Whoever is the creator of the ad, whoever is the box, whoever is the TV, whoever is the politician, whoever is the shitty company, whoever is the shady financier, whoever is the modest worker, whoever is the voluntary worker, whoever is the small shopkeeper, whoever is the big saver, whoever is the human being who exists... all guilty of various degrees of baseness that add their share of sad consequences to the mass of turpitudes of human societies.

And the artists and art makers are not left out

The emphatic-narcissistic nullity boasts of sensitivity. Sometimes we need answers to the context in which we live, right here, right now. And the answers of art and artists seem to me to be even flimsier, more out of touch than all the others. What impotence! What misery!

I only want to eat and keep a roof over my head, otherwise I would do nothing, nothing visible, because I have no capacity to do anything worthwhile in my eyes, to respond tangibly to the daily shaking of the world. Only keeping yourself as well as you can and looking around you seem possible to me. Also, because I am the one who proposes it, you will pay if you wish to be part of it, according to what you feel you should and not less. But I won't stand back to give you a free ride, to flatter your convictions and your potential abilities. No more pedagogy.

Because I'm tired of not being able to play this inane game, and it's all for the best; to believe in any of its qualities, from commerce to communication, from hierarchy to revolt, from beauty to art...

There will be nothing to plan and nothing to do. There will only be to be there, to look at oneself and to try to make something of a different and necessary nature happen for oneself. Stop playing the smart guy in order to make yourself feel good in the eyes of others, because that is precisely playing the game of the Evil One. Eventually say, laugh, scream because we are gifted for that. I want heroes who have not put their souls in the back pocket of their jeans, folded like a cap to be pulled out in case of good weather.

Now I have nothing to work with but to try to be true to my own standards. More so than before, if I ever tried to be.

Not very reasonable, it seems, when one is not cunning and resourceful enough to survive. I too, comrade, am afraid, but I only want to look in the face and follow, with open ears, the sound of that tiny voice that whispers to me: Seep me, I am the truth of reality. Not the TV fantasy.

The rest is mediocrity or madness and leads only to a charmless chaos. A chaos most indifferent to the world which, through stupidity, greed and a taste for misfortune, has brought it into being. But after all, isn't that what romanticism wanted? Literature stops at the limits of the living, just like art as a whole, you see. Arms too short. The current era is a nice answer to those who think Sade was a monster or that video games are bad. The act of creating will never be the act of living and yet... that's what we should be able to do without being arrested by anyone. Too many formal behaviours hinder the path to thought. We must live for what we know about ourselves and not for what we believe about others. To Be Continued... In Real Life.

If you want to see and be part of it, come with your makeup to dress up your fear, your desires, your intelligence and what else you want, we'll see what we can do with it, but pay your way here first.

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