Tomb
Collection, 1997-2021
How to admit that the disappearance of those whom we love infinitely is a fundamental necessity of the existence in the movement of the history of the living. Thus, perhaps, we may be able to control the chaos caused by the inevitable and final absence.
I feel like I’m pushing my birth-cry a second time when, naked and fragile, we cling to the cold, unknown, dry, noisy exterior that surrounds us. A first and terrifying aggression, that first shock seems to be forgotten, but our bodies have kept it forever and at night, it sometimes haunts our dreams. After that, our heart beats slower, and now we can go back to sleep. Our mother is there and will protect us forever – alas, no. As soon as you catch your breath, the nightmare will stop as we are alive. Despite everything.
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We, the children of Diogenes
Novel, 2017
Following their accidental meeting, two Parisian teenagers of the 60s decide to escape the petrified world in which they were born. Richard and Lucie will have to get rid of their idealistic individualism. They imagine strategies that will lead them to Athens. In the district of Exarchia, hypotheses and lines of escapes are invented, outside of the programs and norms that are no longer acceptable, proposed by the authoritarian political field and its institutions. Over the course of a story that unfolds over half a century to End Tomorrow, Richard, Lucy, and those they meet on their way forge a future in which they want to live up to their aspirations.
Humanism, the “naturally good Man” tirade, are chimerical pirouettes. With a firm gesture, we remove from our workbench whatever distorts our work: the morals and what sticks to their strings. It is a first step towards mad wisdom. We get rid of the trash that rots our heads, like You who come here leaving all hope. We forbid hope, and add illusion beneath it so that we forbid the latter as well, we have made the tower of misdeeds just like so. Hope and illusion, mere suitcases stuffed with emptiness. Ever since, we were carrying them from one station to the other! In these suitcases, we have piled up other smoky deceptions that have had their time, such as progress, a brighter tomorrow, paradise and its host of decadent virgins, and pure nylon socks. We discard all that. As known, Not to carry much suitcases is one of the fundamentals of being an explorer. By the way, do you know what explorers have in their pockets? Something to make a fire, some grass, uh… four items would be more than sufficient for them, the essentials and that’s all. We’re just the same. A piece of paper and an old pencil with a sharp edge, just to note the fragments of a new language to invent, just in case. Let us thus draw our lives as nature draws its landscapes.
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Manure
Novel, 2021
Following a tragic event, Lucrèce, a little boy from the east of Paris, decides to take revenge. A journey that will take him to the south of Morocco, the place where his mother’s family is located. From the spring of 2018 to the first of January 2021, he crossed France and Spain, traveling the Moroccan Rif, until he reached the southern Atlas. When the virus first hits in March 2020, it gets even more complicated – but is Covid more devastating than what has been tearing us apart for too long?
Today I realize that my father had abandoned the world he was supposed to live in, that he was telling himself a story full of lies, that this dishonesty killed him. I try to imagine how he managed to put an end to his misery. He began by hanging the rope on the barn beam. Before he fired the kick that would hang him, what was going through his mind at the moment? Then he climbed the ladder. Just before he landed the kick that would hang him, what was going through his mind at the moment? What external noise was reaching him? Did he wish that someone would jump in and rescue him in the last minute. Or, with an empty head, just a last gesture before falling into the abyss and “Ciao”. Did he struggle, did he contemplate what he was doing? Was the death he executed on himself a punishment? He was clear on this question, God does not exist, a pretext to postpone till forever. So, was it an exemplary gesture, so that other people after his death would be in charge of the destiny of guys like himself? No, he was neither a moralist nor an activist, not even a philosopher, just a good guy. So his death would be the only worthwhile deed, a deed that would finally erase the daily terror that was killing him relentlessly? A fallen hero, my father.
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Shock waves followed by Three Love Songs
Short stories, 2020
Inadvertently, Alice has gone through the mirror. Lost in a strange labyrinthine basement, she tries to understand what led her there.
Is humanity a cosmic virus? Fine, so be it. So here we are, nothing worthwhile about our existence. apart from the pleasure of life and its fury, literature, love and their turbulent questions.
How could we exist in a single body endowed with a single soul, if not by creating disguised, deranged and counterfeit doubles in order to get rid of the traps set.
The shrink, still bent over on the couch, is having fun. Counting his fingers, up and down, he seems apparently satisfied with his position, he comments just to himself: “Perfect! Art is born from constraint, Man is made in resistance. But let us not forget the sex, this mysterious center piece of the brain” he adds, while unbuttoning himself.
Mr. H., exhausted, lies down on the floor and falls asleep. The shrink, at the peak of his ecstasy, closed his eyes. So as not to disturb them, Alice reads in a low voice.
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The Formants Book
Pictograms, 2008
In the reception of a message structured in an open way, the expectation implies less a forecast of the expected than an expectation of the unforeseen. What could be at stake in the artistic work through an open dynamic? To provoke an unusual emotion by the means of shifting events, unpredictable but organized, freely perceived by the one who experiences that journey. Difference and repetition, rupture and continuity, competition and occurrence implicitly create a graphic or sound kinet icism to be interpreted. This book invites you to travel through one of the many labyrinths where shapes and colors endanger themselves.
At what point of the journey are we?
The escaping lines are even more blurred
their point of convergence perceptible, there, in the distance.
Perhaps we should help ourselves with a Goose game, cards, or a chess game?
Let’s choose a proper Russian roulette and become an exquisite corpse.
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The Book of Spectra
Imaginary graphics, 2014
An invitation to a journey into the depths of the Underground, where improbable figures are exiled and revealed by a graphite line, swarming and swelling in the dark silence.
The remaining traces of the drawing,
Spectra are their subliminal witnesses.
Shadow prey.
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Panic in Golden Park
Tale, 2013
While Lys and her three little sisters are having fun in the park, a cheeky Elf leads them into one of the strangest adventures. Will they be able to escape the dangers that await them?
Once upon a time there was a time when children loved to play together because they were not yet vampirized by the little magic boxes that evil ogres invented. These dreadful cannibals, who were bored because they lacked the ability to play, would crawl through eye holes of little children to devour their heads and thus feed on the treasures their heads contained.
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The Orge and the Little Girl
Tale, 2016
A little girl goes on an adventure. The night begins to fall. Her parents are looking for her.
Where is she hiding ?
The orge is hungry. He is fatterning up the captured girl.
Will he eat her ?
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Encounter of the Third Guy
Photo-poem, 2015
Like so many others, a young man is going to die. Like so many others, the AIDS virus has worn him down. Before his heart stops beating, he remembers, as a whimsical dreamer, the things he has known, music of the past, and invents a future that will never exist.
Leave. Escape from this hell. Now.
I hold on tightly to the moonlight and stand up.
I move towards the window and open it, I step over it, and I fly away.
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The Meridian
Columns
Tomes I, II, III, IV, V, ...
Traces of a life captured over the course of time so as not to get lost along the way. Personal notes, articles and biographical references of writers, thinkers and artists are all collected.
[…] One for one and all for none. Here I am, growing the habits that differentiate me, sorting, identifying and eliminating the superfluous – i.e. almost everything is in the garbage pile, in the rotting sepulchre that is the territory of the […]
[…] There is no such thing called love, there are only proofs of love, wrote the poet Pierre Reverdy. A cliché worn to the bone. Help! Let’s hide in the bushes and make love without hindrance! […]
[…] and the deep boredom encountered the middle class and bourgeois way of life. Holding a bachelor’s degree in literature and a master’s degree in comparative literature. An admirer of Char. A friend of Jack Nicholson who helped him financially. A one-eyed child since the age of seven during a quarrel with a little neighbor, died of a […]
[…] Valadon. A beautiful face conveys a thoughtful gravity in all her portraits. Her nudes are not particularly convincing. More than anything, I love her free and passionate temperament which seems, wrongly, to contradict the almost cold nature of the characters she paints. The calmness hides […]
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