Friday, September 12, 2014
The sinews of war

Saturday, July 19, 2014 - 1:28 p.m. -Vitry

Is creativity  accessible to everyone? Does everyone has the capacity to create? Does everyone has this need? What it means to create anyway? Where does the creative act come from, what is its origin? Is create a passion or a necessity? What is the difference between the amateur and professional? Is there as many answers and nuances as many creative people?

Any answer which take the water is be null and void.

From time to time, an ear overheating, associated dizziness, nausea, looks like the loops in the big mountain A manufacturing defect has deprived me of any filter possibility, I never well understood, a story of tether in the inner ear, the center of balance, a small thingumabob missing, a kind of rubber, if needed.


Find an acceptable solution to my personal utopia justifies the existence of the above questions. Spend my days creating, don’t do more than that, draw, read, write, think about my plans, models, sketches, dig them such as galleries until my treasure, even in secret.
The reframings on the profitability that must include all life, capitalization, achievement, all that could concern the amorality of such activity and laziness characterization, social uselessness, megalomania, unconsciousness, or rebellion, don’t interest me and don’t respond to the question raised.
It doesn't suit me to be misunderstood, believe in a cursed part that would define , or scaffold a myth of wacky and uncontrollable personality that would compose my identity.

I don’t care about all this.

I would like to not worry about of the transmitted message or to be transmitted, what people will think of my work, to know whether I please or not, if my words are politically correct or will shock, be part of the arts community or have the capacity to blend in a peer circle, the ways to no longer worry about my rent, my food or my comfort, my holidays, my health, afford to this different life, to sell my creations well or poorly, have the correct artistic rate, do whatever is necessary to introduce myself, play the game, make a masterpiece or be composing it, think about or envisage it, to dream for or be haunted by that.

I don’t care all this. Even if we must solve the equations.

Why this desire for a drawing which would last the rest of my life?
The answer is my secret key for the first door that will provide access to the second, then the third and the following. Build my project without it being perceived as an escape, renunciation, hiding place usurped and not deserved, what I want, what I don’t want, boundaries to discover, among my leaders, sometimes forgetting them,  however, it is my own life that I build. Neither authorization or justification, but recognition.

The money I call it the sinews of war, the second fuel, without him everything is different. Restrict the means and comfort is possible, it would involve only with pencil and a sheet (by luck ! the paint costs much more expensive!), ascesis undoubtedly entirely laudable,  tools reduced to their simplest form would render to the artistic creation the  freshness lost in luxury - it takes to let go the bad word - that corrupts all kind of imagination.

Only money can provide time and orgy of technical performances that push the limits of what can be dreamed. We wouldn’t have built the cathedrals, The Raft of the Medusa, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, any one of the seven wonders, careers, masterworks, we would have done nothing. Taking place needs a disproportionate energy at certain times. We would almost believe that staying in the caves is comfortable. Being of his time, take its time, persist over time, conjugate times, be of all times, and time goes

For the indebtedness, you eventually adjust your spending, there are years since I don’t do my accounts - despite my training I'm particularly bad at mental arithmetic, ask me how many are sixteen and twenty-one to make cracks me up, it is impossible for me to move beyond the stage of the bill. Not that I call into question what it costs. To tell the truth, in fact, more and more often, when I think about it, whatever the expense and purchase, understand what I pay for remains very confused. It's not that I refuse to put the price, or a luxury history, pay what you can’t afford, I'm the only one who knows how far can my credit worthiness.

In my opinion, for what it's worth, any individual wishing to live of its creations must resolve the enigmas in his own way, good or bad, choose water down, hackney them, leave them open or closed, such as mysteries The posture that would be appropriate would be an oscillation, a weight in the stomach, an entrenched mass that would allow pitching, front, rear, one side to the other, without ever falling, a kind of Bidibulle. Forget the representations of melancholic artist, destitute, valiant, hardworking, find joy, peace, calm, I dare sometimes to think about what is the foregoing, and the following with a smile on the lips.

The word to live is inappropriate, I already live of my creations without them ensure my material livelihood. You can turn the problem in every direction to not have to wrestle with the rest, materiality, technical resources, glazes, recognition, value, sacred gift, talent, or worse, the vocation. A warrior without horse don't go in the battle, he can stay in the back and polish his armor, refine its campaign planning, or dream that war never concern him. The one who doesn't want to take his own head, he doesn't have to.

One doesn’t create to sell, but to create you need to sell. With few exceptions, it is historically known. Create is not my passion but my need. The interference that is the action of putting a price or to imagine any value to my work, lost time anyway in a multitude of obligations, the story of the goose that lays the Golden Eggs, accept that there is a market guts (I borrow the expression from Jean Rochefort), listen or tune out , to rub so bad waves on the frequency that you couldn’t be able to listen again the one on which you can broadcast, losing it is a risk, find it is also one.

The quality of listening depends on the hardware that you  afford, at the age of 46 years soon I know what it cost, and high quality stereo is in my ways, it allows finesse reception enlarged, even if the training time to adjust the inner ear is very long, and purchasing the right decoder requires a credit on twenty or thirty years. The equipment of the ears are precision technology. Sometimes, I confess, I avail the occasion, but it’s nevertheless the least of it. Other times I pick a frequency that wasn’t expected to hear. Oh well ! It’s better to listen than being deaf, although it’s not useful to be on constantly bugging - it undermine the ears.

Perhaps it’s easier not solve anything, after all, efforts to be part of that you aren’t supposed to be, assert an identity that exists only for yourself, inevitably accept to seem to most eyes, and then find the means, grab on this fuc... sinews of war, if only they sold on FNAC[1] that one, at least with my credit card I'd paid me! What is the point to denature my gestures and intentions, face the opposite current, all that prevents to swim freely, am I strong enough, is there enough muscles in a human body to swim across the Channel , to renounce there is only excuses.
Some people have grime in the ears. It’s not about cleanlines here, but about morality. They say it’s bad about not washing,  we mix all, if the property keep his place we would recognize it better. My sister regularly launches the joke, only the dirty ones wash themselves. Even trying not to wash myself, it doesn’t work, the stuff of plugged ears, it doesn’t work.

I don’t like swimming, I don’t like muscles, I don’t like credit cards, I don’t like the sinews of war, I don’t like to play, I don’t like obligations I don’t like parasites and warriors without horses, I don’t like the stresses, I don’t like questions and equations, I don’t like the maze of labyrinths, I don’t like the answers .
Any Schtroumpf doesn’t  schtroumpfe on the Black Schtroumpf[2].

myriam eyann

[1]The FNAC, First grand cultural product store in France, literature, music, multimedia, photos, computers, first in Paris since 30 years and now in all the hexagon
[2] The Schtroumpfs (the Smurfs), belgian comics design by Peyo, created in 1958, very famous for the french kids, centered on a fictional colony of small blue creatures who live in mushroom-shaped houses in the forest. The Black Schtroumpf is the only one to be black, always complaining, he don’t like anything.
About the Smurfs
Posted at 4:39 - 0 comment

Leave your comment

Your comment will appear after approval.

The bold fields will be visible on my site

Name or Nickname (*)
Email (*) 
Website : http:// 
Message  (*) 
IP adress :
(*) Required fields

Older Post
The magnet of my walks  
Newer Post Home
The eleventh question  

Texts archives

   December (1)
   November (1)
   October (1)
   September (2)
   August (3)
   July (1)
   June (2)
   May (3)
   April (2)


There are authors who write with light, others with blood, with lava, with fire, with soil, with mud, with diamond powder, and finally those who write with ink, the unfortunate, with ink simply.

Pierre Reverdy, Le Livre de mon bord