What is not there

My cowardly way of staying hoping there is. Five works, a deconstructed story, a journey standing still, for the first time in a long time, to discover the most intimate part, the hidden one, the one that is scary. Come on a little
blue bird in the heart.

Like all artists, they have secrets, like letters stolen from the supermarket for a loaf of bread and a shred of fame.

Artists have no secrets, in the eyes of others they find themselves fragile between certainties and hopes. A journey, these works of mine, to discover these secrets between past and future, between a lost and a sought-after innocence.

Among the guardians of the house to protect my personal hearth, naked, I will look for the right questions, which we are all good at giving the answers. A mask to say who we are, then the time will come to remove that too. Today it is still too scary.

A work, a stage, a fixed point. I’ll take everything I’ve been with me so as not to lose any pieces along the way: a small suitcase, a pair of shoes, a marker, an unanswered question. What is not there.