[answer 1]

The drawings so organical and the words and world so locigal, analytical. An apparent contradiction. Mais c’est la même chose, ça provoque une émotion. La volupté du dessin et la logique de l’isomorphisme provoquent le même genre d’émotion, chez moi. Se sentir chez soi, d’arriver quelque part.

D’avoir quelque chose à dire, d’exister, en couleur, ou noir et blanc, sur papier, ou pellicule, et en concepts, idiosyncrasies, similitudes, échos et ombres du monde qui m’entoure. C’est comme la nature, cette force brute. Ce chaos. Mais le chaos, c’est également l’ordre, cf Mandelbrot p.ex. Cette soupe primaire, l’humus, qui donne naissance à tout, aux anges comme aux démons, à un embryon, qui fait éclore une graine. Le chaos c’est noir, mais c’est également plein de couleurs. Like a nebula. Like the universe, the cosmos. Black and silent but full of noise. So unpredictable, yet only physical equations. Like quarks, neutrinos, electrons, communicating on a subatomical level. The way that some minds can communicate. Almost like telepathy. Almost instantaneously, with one simple yes or hmm.


It’s like Billy Elliot describing dancing. Like electricity. Yeah, like electricity. I just disappear when I dance. Like I disappear when I write or draw. Just being, doing. Like meditation. Total awareness of the self and no self at all at the same time. Dissolved. Diluted. Like heavy syrup in spring water. Sweet and moist.

It’s solipsism.

Exhilarating. Like yoga too. Or lying in ice cold water. Or tasting something delicious but wanting to know it’s name in Latin. To be able to tag it, to store it away in the brain. To remember it. Being forgotten, that’s one of my biggest fears. I want to be remembered. Not necessarily by many but by the ones that matter.
I remember everyone. Some people don’t remember me but that’s normal, I don’t hold grudges for that. As I said, I’m not HRH. I’m just a genius hiding in the woods. Who has returned to life. And feels happy again and free. But also lost and careless. I have to control my cravings and emotions, he me, because I’m not an animal. But I am, an animal. I’m a homo sapiens. It’s genetic. But still, he says, you need to control it because otherwise you will get hurt. Even if fear is a dirty liar, it’s still real.

And I’m sick of doubt

Sorta feels good. Sorta stiff and that, but once I get going… then I like, forget everything. And… sorta disappear. Sorta disappear. Like I feel a change in my whole body. And I’ve got this fire in my body. I’m just there. Flyin’ like a bird. Like electricity. Yeah, like electricity

Billy Elliot

This is why we don’t always understand each other.
We are prisoners of our own corporal habits.
Language is happiness.
Language is boring.
Language is love.
Language is dangerous.
I love the words.
I hate the words.
I still don’t know enough words to tell the world.

Do the graphics of a truth-table show the truth of the world?
Does an elaborate painting show the truth of its maker?

What do we want to show to our spectators?
The world
Our inner life
The truth
A form

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