Painting, a place where gesture become unresolved, figures hesitate. Where are the others? Others are everywhere.
Painting, a comfort zone that may never exist. A place to feel safe to be disturbed. Painting to make love with disturbed stars. Painting as a brouhaha, where noise of images crash in a colorful accident. Painting, as a space of slowliness yet where here I am to far from a shell, entremêlée. Painting fast to paint loud. A lonely balade where others are the self. Painting to hunt what's in there, hunt and become haunted, someone else. A force de faire le vide en elle, quelqu'un a fini par entrer. Painting as a force, to force, where to much is slightely enough. Painting as a never ending story, where day sounds like a Verklärte Nacht. Painting about thinking in the making. No ending, ding ding, painting, as an insisting annoying labour. Painting the blabla of the stories in my head. An accident in a deaf magenta sky. Painting to control my accident, this protestant-like neighbour. Accelerating, increasingly moving, painting as a countinuous present moving me or me moving, painting as a verb. To protest. A tired collision, a repetitive condition, on and on, painting to bring me to an other painting, and so on. Painting in silence. An obsession, a half empty half full, painting, not choosing, drinking and eating, painting even full, manger la tasse.
Painting as a brouhaha-haha, painting and laughing, and laughing and painting, laughing me, laughing at me, at ceci celà, upside down me and we, painting as a whole, fucking hole, swallowed by me, me as a joke, we as a mole. Painting like, not sure I am laughing at a bad joke, painting inside a joke, a circle where humans get trapped writing poems to animals. Painting and cross, what remains a flesh of images.