Everything was surely there.
Spleen, at first.
Then the conviction to be necessarily somewhere else.
My father’s desk. Felt-tips, charcoals, lined up behind a computer.
Photographs. Printings. Printing Fair, full, in the corridors, on the paper.
The room. A large collection of papers, cut papers to fill walls.
A sight on jail, commercial center. Around, roads.
Holidays in former scrap merchant’s empty shed.
Classic dance under damp roofs. Jazz dance under neons.
Negatives. A lot. Because no instant decides. Gestures only. Or intentions. And Memory choosing.
On screens : music. C artoons. Twin Peaks. Chaplin.
One day, a rhyme. Silence is not totally here anymore. Spleen neither.
Far, an echo : Duras.
So, studies. For a long time. History of art. To write under influence, eat, digest. Words are hungry. To hear and to see. Then words eat words.
And go. Coyoácan. Mexico. Another silence. Of mad words, sounds. Camera comes back while language is taunting. Testimony. Keep busy.
Paris. Roma. Paris.
Correspondences. Corpet. Erró. Jouffroy. Boullé.
Selective instants. They make films. Rhythm.
Time to collect everything. To catch the link. Multisensory.
Sound draws a picture. Immediately. A vision leads to note, word, voice, text.
A necessary game without closing drawer. Music, word, photograph, drawing.
Everything is there. Always. Everywhere. In. Out.