My Beautiful
How to explain, even develop meaning in a discourse where just the second is most
important. The instinctive instant, so furtive, defies our eyes of what must be, perhaps, a good image, a beautiful illustration. But this second, just this second, when I think I’ve come close to the Holy of Holies, is one of silent delight. This invocation of the orgasmic “little being” leads me and unconsciously constructs the family memories of my five senses.
This enjoyment, however short-lived, fills me with flavors, smells, words and great inner discretion. It brings to real and long time a recognition of “my beau”.
“My beau” is a schizophrenic character with whom I’ve lived for nearly 65 years. He’s my companion in looking at my world, distinguishing things in my virginal unconscious. “Mon beau” is the perpetual interrogation of my eyes. In it, I find my memory of old feelings. It scrutinizes my accomplishments. It redefines me, calling up some buried or even forgotten feeling.
Because of the incessant dissolution of time, these feelings are volatile, requiring constant running, redoing, reinventing, reinventing oneself and being reborn. Coming from the world of the trace, it’s impossible for me not to make reference to some master of the visual arts. I’m pursuing “Mon beau”, which is an act of survival and transmission.
It’s as close as I can get to my instant instinct. I’m a visual writer, I only tell my story. I don’t have a message, I’ve never wanted one.
I escape, I travel, I visit myself… .
Whatever the technology, the means, the translations, it opens up worlds to me. I don’t choose this or that medium; for me, choice doesn’t exist. Each translation using this or that language brings a new relationship to the same reinvented image of “Mon beau”.
I’m searching.
This almost stratigraphic representation, through its algorithmic automatism, reveals me to myself, what I wear, builds me up, becomes what I am. I could never resolve myself to a single answer on this or that illustrative image. The countless possibilities offered by
digital technology open up worlds to us, but these worlds come from our memory, both universal and personal. They are journeys between “Mon beau” and myself.
Should I ignore them, since I can?
Every day is new, rainy or sunny, every day holds a truth.
It’s the representation of my existence at this point in time. I alone decide what is and what is not. I’m not fooling anyone, I’m accessing myself. But to suggest that this is the only truth is a gross deception of what we are: there is no absolute truth.
Representation never stops, only evolves and searches. A daisy, whether photographic, pictorial, abstract, figurative or even narrative, remains a daisy.
But it will remain unique to your singular mind. It is the richness of your “Beauty”.
The only thing I’ve been wondering about since the dawn of time is: Why does my instinct make me do this?
