Walk to edge of the water
And look for a clue
We are not what we seem
So temporary
Unexpected
The most precious jewels
All that is worth
Seeing and feeling at all.

Cerfs-Volants

Vivre et être humain. Telle est la tâche qui nous est donnée. Ordonnée. Mais comment? Comment sortir de l’osmose et accepter d’être seul? Comment faire semblant qu’on durera toujours et prendre part à la partie qui est jouée d’avance? Comment sourire et se lever et rester debout et résister, résister à l’appel de la terre, rester chaud et mouvant et vivant?

Leur vie ne tient qu’à un fil. Leurs os et leur peau : des brindilles et du papier. Le souffle de vie est imprévisible, subi. Leur existence : que du vent. Ils volent follement, sans contrôle, sans aller nulle part. Ils flottent et tournent quelques instants puis tombent et se brisent. Les

Il n’y a pas de liberté -quelqu’un me retient, me rappelle à la terre.

Il n’y a pas de sécurité -je ne suis qu’un fétu de papier au bout d’un fil qui peut se casser, retenu par un autre qui peut me lâcher.

Les yeux des cerfs-volants ne regardent pas. Les sourires des cerfs-volants ne sourient pas. Ils dérivent.

Ils me parlent de l’effroi de devenir humain. Réaliser qu’on n’a vraiment sa place ni en haut ni en bas, qu’on est fragile et sans contrôle, qu’à tout moment on peut tomber et qu’un jour on tombera. Alors on se colle un sourire de papier mâché et on se barbouille les yeux pour maquiller les larmes et la peur et la lassitude qui nous prennent alors, on étend les bras comme un condamné et on laisse la brise -ou la tempête- nous emmener en voyage. Pour oublier. Oublier ce que c’est que d’être humain. (‘Ne me lache-pas!’)

Ces cerfs-volants ont également le “vrai” goût de l’enfance qui est tout sauf l’innocente croisière que l’on se plait à croire. Ils mélangent sans tabou le rêve et le cauchemar, le jeu et l’angoisse, de toutes ces turbulences auxquelles on doit faire face avant même de savoir mettre des mots dessus (‘je suis là!’). Ils sont lancés comme des appels à l’humour et au jeu pour résister à la terreur et au désespoir. Fragiles mais colorés, chargés mais légers, les cerfs-volants ironisent. Ils ne sont pas ce qu’ils ont l’air d’être.

(Introduction written for artist Alain Ponçon on his work "Cerfs-Volants". Pictured "Fantômes" copyright Alain Ponçon) 

Night Time Story

"Quitte ces vêtements de soleil érodé
Plus un bruit dans le bois
Que quelques pierres qui pleurent
Que quelques enfants morts
Qui rient entre les ronces."

 

Home (again)

I will remember the paths and the trees and the way the sun met us all, tattooing something more eternal and more godly than we were ever aware of into our very eyes and bones and hearts.

 

Parakeet

If only you had believed me.
I read you the words of wiser fools before us, and pointed at the holes and tears in the fabric of our hopes. I warned you against the brightness of the sun and the flame that would consume our paper wings. I desperately clutched at you like water flowing through my inadequate embrace. But you were like a cage bird and flew out the window. And so I'll close my eyes to the shadow of the cat and the hawk, and cover my ears to the laughter of children with blowpipes. And I will leave a bit of bread and water by my window.

You

Your eyes,

Like that cold bunch of beauty

I picked that day in the morning fog

And brought back to warm up

In the corner of my heart.

The Collapse

Don't go away. 

I never meant not to stay.

It's just that the noise has taken me

It's caught me in its dance.

I don't want to forget

But for now please let me

Not remember.
.

Just wait for me

Ready to feed me again

When I remember that I can't live

And starve

Like this

That I can't dance 

Hollow and thin

Forever.

When they've left me

Come back

I will be where I've always been

An incurable fool.

Because like me you know

That I can't live

With or without you.

Pour ne pas couler

Pourvu que tu y croies.

Je n'ai jamais voulu mourir
Seulement respirer moins fort, moins vite et laisser le corps
Tout seul avec sa pourriture.

Cocons de Raison

L'affreuse métamorphose
De l'émotion insupportable
insupportée
Je n'ai jamais voulu tuer
Les cerveaux encensés ont tort
Et je n'ai jamais su penser.

Un jour
Le corps m'est revenu comme un crachat au visage
Je redescends dans mon linceul
Et j'essaie d'y croire.

Je n'ai jamais voulu le voir
Le nez dessus et les yeux grands ouverts
Ma vie n'est qu'un rêve, un meurtre inaccompli

Pourvu que tu le croies
C'est en les autres que je croyais
M'éventrant moi-même à fixer mon nombril.

(2000)

Dead in the water

We only had our mouths to try and filter into words and sense the boiling mess of infinity within us. That sensation of being bigger inside than the limits of our skin, that sinking feeling, the fear we may implode if we couldn't let some of it out. The disappointment as all this terrifying beauty would get mashed and reduced to pale skin and bones by the inefficiency of speech. So we'd walk along the edge of the lake in silence, thinking we were like dead in the water and trying to get over the mourning of our impossible encounter, accept the infinite loneliness, never to be able to expose the wonder, never to be able to break through the limits of oneself to finally reach the Other, meet them, naked and true and almighty. Just dead in the water, floating under the ripples of the surface, cold and immobile, like me and you in the silence of our bodies.

Out of the Woods

Never to get lost again.

The lines on my face 

Like the scars on my skin 

Are like rails to hold on 

For a steadier progress

And a safer finish

When you know

You let go

My youth is dying and with it the old wounds

Living appears simpler and the rules fall away

Wish I had known back then

Wish I had known

Wish I could start again.

Remember me

Remember me.

Because I am so temporary, and slowly fading away as the wind blows and the sea comes in, soon to be washed away into unimaginable infinity of space and time, helpless and so insignificant...

Remember me.

Because it's the only way to keep a trace of my irrelevant footprints after the tide has been and gone.

Keep me in.

Because although we never make any sense at all in our time here, at least I did a bit to you.

How to live your life

I remember dawn in the fir woods, mist hanging from ferns like the drags of our mortality, searching for needles in haystacks, like answers or at least smiles to make us forget this was another dawn, and we were still searching, searching in the undergrowth, and feeling so alive, and in the excitement forgetting that we were just like the mushrooms, temporary, hidden, lonely and so hard to find.

 

The Weakness

It's so easy to lose touch with oneself. It seems to me that everything around me conspires to distract me, lead me astray, make me forget where I want to go, where I'm heading. How to resist the daily pressure of conformity and shallow living, borderline, merely brushing what life really is and what we really are? I'm scared of giving in, letting the sirens' songs draw me into the deep, falling into that empty slumber, forgetting... I'm scared because I do not know what to do to stay in touch, stay awake and shine, how to stay alive, how to pass on the message, my message, how to be me. The weakness. The words once written at the dawn of consciousness crawl back to me with a bitter taste of déjà-vu : wrestling with this complex, shapeless thing that is my life, I still don't know how to use it, and it's getting worn, and I'm going nowhere.

Love this moment. 

Feel it with all your senses and your soul. 

This tiny, fragile, insignificant moment in the eye of the mind-blowing immensity of time. 

It is, to me, right now, the most beautiful and precious thing of all. 

This moment, this place, the sky, the air, us, now... to witness it, to be a part of it before it disappears, like we will too one day. Short-lived, strong, amazing, painfully beautiful. 

This moment. 

Here. Now. Feel it, touch it, breathe it, be a part of it. 

Exist. 

With all your little human heart.

(To feel alive. It's not that easy, but it doesn't take much.)

My enemy (from 'Insides Out')

It’s been a long ongoing war between my body and myself, a long series of arguments, break-ups and misunderstandings, lack of tolerance and compassion from both sides. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to work with it, alongside it, never really saw it as a tool but instead, have always dragged it like a dead weight, an awkward burden, ill-adapted, imperfect, limited, limiting. It has always been a source of frustration and pain -seemingly so pointless and unfair-, an indelible reminder of my limited time in this world, of my unstoppable decay. This body, nothing more than a prison, a curse, something which would eventually be the end of me, something which would not let me be to the extent my mind desires to be.
    My enemy. I remember lying in bed at night as a young girl with the feeling of lying inside a corpse, my arms carefully resting on either side of my torso so as not to be in contact with any bones which would remind me that all this would one day be rotting in the ground. I recall the long lasting impossibility for me to look at my own x-rays and see my skull, my teeth, the grinning face of my future death. I recall the nocturnal panic from feeling so much of flesh and bones, hearing my heartbeat and feeling my lungs fill and empty themselves, my blood rushing through my veins and keeping the flesh warm, the painstaking softness of my skin, all this so overwhelmingly fragile, temporary, so unbearably vulnerable.
    My enemy. Becoming a woman was a traumatic experience and I’ll never be quite sure whether I’ve truly accepted this cross I was given to bear. The physiological changes, the blood, the pain, so unfair, so overwhelming. The social changes, the sudden importance of appearance, the new rules of the game, a new identity, imposed and heavy. New limitations, new shame, new self-esteem or damage to it.
    My enemy. When my mind was breaking down, overheating, bubbling to the rim with newly-discovered powers and their infinite possibilities but I was stuck in this body of heavy bones and weak muscles, imperfect tongue and breath and eyes. War or perverted team spirit? In self harming, my body coming to rescue the mind caught in a self-destruction mode in its desire of annihilation, and dragging it back to reality through pain, an irrefutable anchor to the here and now, a calling for compassion and nursing by exposing its vulnerability in blood and broken skin.
    My body. This familiar and alarming stranger which follows me everywhere, the experience of which I am never quite sure. So close, so me, and yet so unfamiliar, unknown, so often working against me. My body, the common element in the way of all that matters: me, the others and time. My body, such an absurdity in the face of the mind and the world, a puppet which my mind observes with a sinking feeling through the keyholes of my eyes, watching it fall and ruin everything, a pathetic show of an ever-failing attempt to live, to meet the other, to inhabit this world.

The Wave

The rebellious bitterness. Creating in order to tame the wave that so insidiously grows and grows, darker and darker, heavy and threatening to crush me again. At blows with my life, my body and myself. No one is winning but everyone is getting hurt and damaged and scarred, and the grudge which is barely remembered is never forgiven. I can't let go. So just make it quiet again. Remind me of what matters, above us, above me, above God. Remind me of the way out, the escape, the only mercy. Starve me from this self-destructive taste and turn the knife away. You, the only hand I can ever stretch to myself to pull me out of the shadow of the mounting wave. Saved. Until the next tide.

 

"Mon plaisir à m'interdire le plaisir"

It's a fine line. That which divides most antipodes. My mind still struggles to recognize which one to love and which one to hate, which one to seek and which one to avoid. Autistic confusion or masochistic perversion? Bit of both but no matter. I welcome pain as medicine for the mind, enjoy loneliness as a way to feel more complete, embrace weakness as the crown of my glory.
I'm standing on the line. Staggering and hovering dizzily over the schism, ever surprised to see how similar both chasms look from here.
It's not easy to be good to oneself.
Some habits die hard.

Not again

Sitting in my bones
I can hear the buzzing of flies to come
Vulnerable
Beyond any comfort from touch or words
Vulnerable
In the hands of Time
Ever faster
Rocking my bones.

La Peau de Sisyphe

Le sang qui sonne sourd contre ces murs de rien
Aveugle qui tâtonne dans le noir
Cherche la poignée
Cherche le bouton de la lumière

Je ne désespère pas


Faire entrer le soleil, faire entrer le ciel
Faire entrer tout ce monde qui est moins grand que moi
Le mettre dans un coin
Ou sur une étagère
Le laisser prendre la poussière
Comme un cher souvenir

Car je n’y habite pas


Alors laisser tout s’écouler
Ouvrir les portes et les fenêtres
Mais l’espace est-il assez grand
Pour contenir tout mon néant?
Mais la lumière est-elle assez honnête

Pour tout montrer et pour tout voir?


Etirer les artères, des ongles dedans creusent
La fine peau qui nous sépare
Si peu
Si fragile
Et abîmé
Contenant et barrière

Ce qui empêche le miracle



Et Sisyphe toujours poussera son rocher.

11/05/2011

The Revelations of the Absurd

I've been reading Albert Camus's essay on absurdity, The Myth of Sisyphus and it struck me like a slap in the face after a long mind-numbing slumber. Added to the rediscovery of musical masterpieces and inspirational artists, the revelations I received ignited a fire within me which had been quietly smouldering for a year or so. An existential crisis? Not quite, but a definite wake up call. The realization that things don't just "come your way" and that time is not eternal. Not even for me. My mortality thrown right back in my face while I'd desperately been trying to forget about it for the last few years, abandoning myself to the comforting state of oblivion found in ignorance, simplicity and routine.
Then suddenly I reach a date, which is only just a date but disturbed forgotten beasts within, woke up the fear. I'm dying. And I realize that I want more, I want to live more, feel more, mean more in this world so adverse to mortality and humanity. To live more and feel more is to awaken the pain, the fears, the desires, the passions, everything which hurt but make us who we are, universally and individually. I need to embrace this absurdity. Again. Not let it destroy me, but let it take me to the limits of myself, show me how I can have an impact on this world, in this life of mine. A scream. A fever.
A new start and a promise not to forget and fall asleep again. I will resist the annihilating force of habit, so dis-alienating and normalizing. So here I am, gesticulating madly, rubbing my eyes raw to stay awake and see all the sublime horror of this absurd world and our absurd presence in it, hoping I can resist the pull, and shake a few of them awake, if not just for one exquisite moment and give this maddening masquerade the semblance of a sense.
I'll give myself to Art. Beautifully absurd, unequivocally human, exclusively me. Here I am, this is my new page.

Home

They say home is where the heart is. But mine is scattered like dust over many soils. It beats to different music, it shines to different lights, it never truly feels complete but doesn't truly feel apart. I'll always have to leave a part of me behind. I'll always have to leave home to come back home.

Paysages d'une vie

Et rongeant mes entrailles

Secouée par la fièvre

blond comme le corbeau

des yeux sans fin

Un grand éclat de rire

Le monde entier l’embrasse

Le soleil se mirait en riant sur son front

Et les ciels s’effilochaient entre les sourires

Et écorchant mon coeur

Sur sa joue lumineuse

Agonie délicieuse

Des yeux...

Trop de clarté peut-être

Mais que tout mon être réclame.



One step forward...

I'm still surprised to realize how scared I am to put my work out to be approved (or not) by the art world. The fear of criticism and rejection which had me paralized all these years is still very much there and clutching at my throat. It would be so easy to step back and close the door, locking my entrails away safely, only to expose them partly and briefly to an audience with no voice and no real interest.
How to accept not to be loved? Art is so inherent to the deepest and most intimate part of the one who creates it, it might as well be their own flesh and blood. Rejection then becomes similar to someone saying they dislike you as a human being and dismiss all that you may feel or think as an individual, that you are not worthy of their time and interest. Am I brave enough for it? Am I ready? Do I feel confident and secure enough with who I am and what I do to survive this ultimate test of love, stand out in a crowd of rivals more talented and charming than me, take my clothes off and face the cold detached stare of the all powerful judges of what is "good art"?...

The Poetic Quality of the Solar System

I think about...

The loneliness of a planet

Spinning around a lonely star

Gravitated by lonely moons

In the silence of outer Space...

The beauty of a moon

Caught in a planet's orbit

Dancing around it forever

But never to reach it....

Being an icicle

In one of Saturn's rings

So delicate, so small

Beautiful

Oblivious to Infinity...

'Ils seraient ceux qui dorment l’un près de l’autre et se retrouvent ensemble au matin, quand on devine que devant les montagnes bleues commence une journée de bonheur.' 

Henri Pourrat, Gaspard des Montagnes

Impression sur fond de lumière

Quitte ces vêtements de soleil érodé
Plus un bruit dans le bois

Que quelques pierres qui pleurent

Que quelques enfants morts

Qui rient entre les ronces

Des copeaux de coeur sous les ongles

Des mouches qui grésillent

Contre la fenêtre entrouverte

Et mille éclats de soir

Plantés en moi je vis

La chaise furieuse brûle

Plus un cri dans le parc

Que le ciel vomissant sur moi

Mes immenses fenêtres.

Au pays

C'est un beau pays

La rage y est molle

Arrondie comme son horizon

S'immole

Les soirs d'été

Les collines s'embrasent

Bleues de silence et de temps

Long comme les yeux

Des gens

Qui ne disent bonjour

Les sapins pour berceau 

Et l'histoire se déroule 

Comme un chat au soleil

Contre un paquet de neige

au Printemps.

Lamb to Slaughter

It's time I finally accept to surrender myself to the sharks of the art world, and allow them to rip through my flesh as they will in the hope that one may spare me and give me a chance to share my "baby" with other similar-minded people... I have decided to put my "I was here" project in the line of fire, a very personal and emotionally charged piece of work for me, but one which I hope is more accessible and more likely to be accepted as a first bait by the galleries I have selected.
Most of the images are ready but I intend to take a lot more photographs when I go to France again at the end of the month, with the intention to expand on some ideas this project has raised. More close-ups, more detail shots and the possible use of my Holga camera for wider shots. All fingers crossed...