Le Mur_01

Facing the wall, there is a hooked atom that catches my eye. It’s not a nail but a screw waiting for something. Opposite me, a flickering crossed head and the neon lights that accentuate my headache. It should all look real. Everything would have to take shape in space, things would have to be arranged and multiplied in harmony on the surface of a single plane. There was no room for 3D. Everything had to be superimposed on the picture rail, the illusion of depth had to be enough to grasp the subject.

I was told, you do what you want as long as it works, as long as it takes. Make your own mayonnaise, we trust you, we know it will work, that the texture will become creamy, like the dispersion we ordered on Monday, like your index finger wiping along your thigh after pressing a corner with your fingertips to erase the drop before it sets. You have to give the illusion of matter, of space and time, but everything has to be smooth, to leave room, to leave an opening, so that the bodies disperse and arrange themselves all around and in front of it, to melt away to better exist beyond the wall.

It is as if… As if the works and the people became witnesses of the same exchange, of the same interaction that inclines them to cohabit, to accept each other as well as to repel each other. And that the false works are superimposed on the real people who eat from their tupperware in a mechanical way when the days are too long. Later, there may be mounds of beer cans created here and there, and maybe a guy drunk enough to stop for a moment in front of the mural, detailing each element to retrace the path in his head, from the first shot, to the second, to the effect on the whole surface, a first painting, a second one, a first color, and another one. Wondering for a moment if the trick is disappointing… or not, in the end it works anyway. What did he really have in mind? 

To create a space, within a space. Pure madness. Will the world always have to work like a Russian doll, with things fitting together, repeatedly in an ingenious and abstract way. The guy, shrugging his shoulders, resigns himself, whether I like it or not, it doesn’t matter in the end, things cohabit, push and entwine to create defined but random places for themselves. This is the harsh reality of the link that unites bodies and things, an incessant back and forth of compromises and altercations. We have to make room for each other in order to invite each other in, to occupy together the territories that are offered to us, imposed on us, thrown in our faces. This is what we give you, do something with it, surprise us with your ingenuity, but don’t let yourself go too far, we’re waiting for you around the corner. 

It is around cohabitation that the whole issue of the wall, and walls in general, could be said to condense, between people and things, between people and people. There is a contract that demands that everything needs to be organised together, in the same breath and that the collaboration become daily and routine, agreed and pleasant. At Le Grain, works and individuals are co-tenants, both signatories of the same lease that forces them to put up with each other. The space will be home to Sarah’s laughter and lamentations, Sasha’s cries and Cyril’s joyful outbursts. We don’t know it yet, but everything is in place for history to be made. 

Everyone has gathered around the same table. Borrowed at first, with some reluctance, to be honest. Can we trust, should we reveal all the things in our lives, should we remain superficial for a while longer, to perpetuate the illusion that things pass and change without reaching us, that everything still slips by? Today, I have been invited to come and see the wall, the mural, as it is called among the initiated, a small group of people will gather and identify the issues of the meeting, try to understand what has been explained to them.

Later, it is the wall that will look at people, when it will have merged with the inevitable chaos of Monday mornings, Friday 5 pm and Saturday evenings, and when the first fingerprints will have been superimposed on the vain attempt at abstraction, an attempt that we visualised so well in our heads and that will not be the same at all, when we realise the magnitude of the task, the difficulty of each line, each ruse , each superimposition which was manifesting itself effortlessly, quite naturally in the middle of the synapses, and which suddenly seems heavy and lazy, when it is time to give it a material and contagious form.

On the other side of the room, a passionate lover exclaims, “But it’s fantastic! I got it all at once, really, Sylvain, your proposal is perfect, a nugget, a burst of genius. It’s subtle, intelligent, really well adapted to the context, there’s even a touch of humour, I can assure you, I saw it straight away. I’m so happy to be here, everyone is so kind. Usually I don’t like openings, people are so uptight, they stand with their shoulders pressed into their columns, weighed down and dumbed down by the social pressure they insist on exerting on others and on themselves. But here, tonight, I feel, we’ll be able to create something else, because that’s what we came for, right?”

And even the guy, a bit lost and depressed, over there, in the corner, will find his account. It’s up to us to create fireworks, around a bit of paint, a table and a few stools, that no one will occupy for long, because it will be time, soon, yes very soon, to start bending our knees, undulating our reeds, shaking our heads a bit, and if we can’t do any better, to try to shake our bodies enough for our souls to have the vague impression of vibrating together. 

From then on, things will blend together, become blurred for some of us, there will be shouts of joy, encouragement, applause and complicit smiles for Sophie who is mixing. At the end of it all, everyone will leave without really tidying up and a small group will remain, complaining a little, without much conviction, about having to tidy up instead of the others.

Tomorrow, there will be the people who only dropped by at the beginning and those who didn’t come at all who will show up. They in turn will make the evening exist in a completely different way, as a fallen potential, activable only by the memory of those who were able to participate and who by their words transmit, distort and judge the shared moments. There are many versions, contradictory, absurd, confusing, as if we were all trying to fill in the same postcard. The image remains the same, the story differs for each sender and each recipient. After collecting a few versions, the ones they think are reliable, they start to wonder, to ask a lot of questions. Because really, they should have passed, it’s true. They’ll probably regret missing it, no doubt, because according to what’s-his-name it was so good. Besides, he still hasn’t slept. 


Speaking of sleep. Me not being here. Who communicates to you a bunch of rantings from a distance, with other voices transmitting blindly all the words I’ve been willing to give them to say.I wonder what Sylvain thinks about when he sleeps. Because he’s really busy, everyone knows that, so for this time I’m writing for him. But the doubt persists, even if I relieve him from the heavy task of introducing, explaining, by cooking you a jumble as strange as it is complicated, which will relieve him of any attempt to explain my uncertain words. Will Sylvain ever have time to rest?

I hope we will stop being afraid to support each other, to collaborate, and then instead of crushing ourselves with our pathological cynicism as tired and unprepared artists, we will offer ourselves words that feel good, that give us courage when reality seems far away and we no longer know exactly what we are working on or whom we are working for and for when or what we are exhausting ourselves. That we are sitting down at the table, looking absent-minded, and then we start eating from our Tupperware with a sad and tired look on our faces to end up getting it all over the place because we are so distracted and worried, and that there, in the middle of our moment of distress, banal but unbearable, a charitable soul in the person of our neighbour across the street hands us a handkerchief and kindly helps us to clean up the scarlet sauce that has spilled at the foot of the wall.