Use life itself as a material of creation and be the filter that excerpts the poems out of the ordinary.
I am moving through the environment to be touched, bored, shocked or amazed. An environment that is composed of matter, waves, emotions, scents, the sun, a rock to stumble upon, a story told on a stormy day, unbalancing my straight walk and moss to catch my fall.
Making art means roving through life, add missing or remove dispensable layers from the world as we perceive it, to create a new vision of reality, not to be truthful but to touch.
Look at this little piece of stone for example. Does it come from those abandoned mines you made me visit? A little fragment of history that was part of your life long ago, disappearing in my pocket. I remember you telling me, that when you were young, going to work made sense. You felt responsible, you felt like you had a right to be. But today, you told me, you wouldn’t quite understand the work of us younger ones. You couldn’t quite catch the sense of our occupations, and you held this fact responsible for our current depressions. It made me think. So maybe this little rock is more than condensed matter, maybe it can also stand as a witness for your past, or even as the weight of my present, that I’ve been carrying more consciously ever since we met.
I would like to ask you some questions, about who you are, and where you come from. But I don’t want facts, I want images, sounds, and smells, so I can show who you are in a way nobody has seen you before. And certainly, one can also perceive a hidden part of me by looking at this representation.
Our universe must remain porous if we want to penetrate into the world of others. Which I do. And I want to make it accessible by grasping the imperceptible and make it visible.
To do so, poetry is an important form of communication. Its transcendence allows us to go beyond concepts of rational thought, it makes us feel.
There are words I read, words I reassemble so they become my own and foreign words I vaguely remember. Their meaning remaining mysterious but their sound reminding me of a sensation I well know. A word evoking the feeling I have, when the wind blows its fresh spring breeze around my limbs, carrying a scent of the summer heat about to come and a humid trace of the winter almost gone. A wind blowing like a sharp word, piercing the chest, but its last vowel soft enough to comfort my heart.
In my artistic work I like to play with the elements to create frictions between reality and fiction, materials and flows. Inventing environments framing my inventories of confused ontologies.
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