A text composed of fragments,
or a text to be whispered by the bedside of a sleeping widow,
This is a broken text, we know the inadequacy of language to express, to describe,
the golden failure of language, its unsuitability for the job it has to do. Whatever.
I love blunt edges and the thorn in my eye,
i want art to be a space in which collisions take place. Fire.
Art is a pivot point. Fire again.
I want the fragility of discretion, of sumptuousness, of the abandonment of all triviality,
of lightness and quickness, of visibility and diversity to dart out of darkness in swift lightning flashes
and to exceed all bounds.
No economy of expression.
In an attempt to cast doubt on the self, on the world, I did a series of photographs entitled "another type of ambiguity",
i named a series of drawings "dressed in smoke" and an other "9, 6, 3 seconds of light",
I called a series of collages "visions of a vanishing face, visions of an emerging grace",
seven short videos were tagged "solitary fights", an other one "lines of supply",
a series of objects made of copper, aluminum or steel was named "columns of dust"
after i watched a vegetable religiously for an hour.
It is a mysterious geography under a rain of fire.
I don't want to be trapped in a slow petrification of the senses thus i intend to be an animal very light in body,
i consider myself a partisan of the flame (constancy of external forms in spite of relentless internal agitation),
it is my way of moving, a mode of existence.
House is on fire.