Tuesday, January 13, 2015
Strip to skin
Strip to the skin[1]

Friday, January 9, 2015 - 8:46 p.m. - At the mill

We almost ashamed to talk, one would prefer to be silent, and then we want to react. Go too far, I want it me too.
Last two days I cling to my pencils, it's the only thing that gives me trust back, hope for the future. You want to drop, say No, that world doesn’t interest me.
Last two days, the only thing that makes sense is a pencil to the tip of my fingers, not for a symbol or a fight, not even to pay tribute, to say anything or to express pain, but to get my resource, my protection, reach my shelter.
Last two days, despite the daily obligations, frantically I drew.

There are six days now, what made mask to me no longer mask. There are only my skin and my pencils, naked, my body unadorned, I stripped myself. It is not about possessions which might have been spoliated to me, it's not altogether humiliation, and it would be dishonest to speak of lost illusions, at age 46 even I would not believe it. It seems that the blast from the explosion had snatched my clothes.

One can alienate my body, but nothing veil my mind. In shambles, in freedom, my curly hair. A man you deprived of all is no longer within your power, he is once again entirely free[2]. This sentence of Soljenitsyne haunts me like a treasure.

Angels giggle, wan skin, extra pounds, and if I dropped, if one doesn’t understand, if one did scoff ? Yeah, that's not the ridicule which will kill me.
I imagine the band gathered in laughing. The first shots are grotesque, hideous, but the idea doesn’t leave. Wolinski's gaze don’t express any malignancy, he loved women, Cabu[3] has grabbed his sketch book and enjoy consecutive laying, I heard that he was going every week to practice on living model in a Parisian workshop, the others took their pencils and caricature, the laughter coming from down there are neither stupid nor wicked.
Hiding my belly button, my black book sketch is the only grant to my decency.

The self-portrait is a French-speaking tradition since Montaigne, Rousseau, Chateaubriand, Simone de Beauvoir. It’s not more easy to handle its own material as the one of others, access my own nakedness is my remedy. No one but me can take this picture of me.

The principle is simple, freedom of expression is my right, say what I think, take a position, I don’t even know why I have to do, the idea doesn’t leave.

I have undressed myself, the rest this is what insists. Pencils in my fist. Liberty, fraternity, my inner witnesses have brandished it well before me, No Pasaran ! Vous ne passerez pas ! You Shall not Pass ! Vous ne passerez pas ! VOUS NE PA-SSE-RREZ PAS ! NO PASARAN ! NO PASARAN[4] !

Charlie Hebdo's goal and their cartoonists 's purpose has never been to arm a bomb.
We can brainwash young people who have nothing to put instead of what malice can there to lay eggs when they let someone take control of their destiny[5]. Why couldn’t we do the opposite, condition people to humor. We would teach humor to school since any young, jokes lessons, we would scoff of each other, we would learn under the eye of adults without hate to received criticism or understand what hurts, we would learn the defusing of the bombs that we can all become, we would do daily exercises of self-mockery.

What are you doing during the kidding's class?
I have Mimics & Caricatures this year, damn, it's hard !!

I know my naivety.

Killing for a cartoon. How can one miss humor to this point?
Humor can be learned, like everything else, laughter is a contagion, a conditioning of spirit, the state of mind that leads to it is a training. The glance forms itself by dint of seeing, when we want to learn architecture we look architecture, for painting watching paint, the same for photography, literature, film, or anything that starts with a pencil, imagination, and a thought. For that matter, in a society dominated by images, a picture class, since any young, that would be good too, art, photography, architecture, comics, graphic design, advertising.
When we want to understand a picture, it needs to look long and the memory of all those we have seen before imbues the retina.

Here there are only words, images, photo. Everyone knows they don’t have the power of guns.

This is not a provocation[6].

myriam eyann

[1] The original French title is Mise à nue.
Strip to the skin reflects my thoughts but the pun remains untranslatable . Mise à nue also refers the term Mise à mort, ie Been killed by an execution squad
[2] Alexandre Soljenistyne, In the first Circle
[3] Wolinski et Cabu were two famous cartonnist of the revue Charlie Hebdo, 5 designers have been killed that day
[4] Madrilenian's slogan
[5] reference to French song of Téléphone La bombe humaine
[6] reference to René Magritte's paint La trahison des images (the Treachery of images)

Alexandre Soljenitsyne, In the fisrt Circle

No pasaran, the madrilenian slogan during the civil war in 1936
It comes with the gesture became a symbol of fighting for freedom, left fist brandished

René Magritte , La trahison des images, 1928, célébre pour sa légende, "Ceci n'est pas une pipe"

Téléphone, french rock band
La bombe humaine, song of album Crache ton venin, 1979

Here the lyrics and my free translation
Je veux vous parler de l'arme de demain - I want to tell you about the weapon of tomorrow
Enfantée du monde, elle en sera la fin - Brought forth of world it will be its end
Je veux vous parler de moi ,- I want to talk about me
De vous - About you
Je vois à l'interieur des images, des couleurs -  I see inside pictures, colors
Qui ne sont pas à moi, qui parfois me font peur - That are not mine, which sometimes scare me
Sensations, qui peuvent me rendre fou- ensations which may drive me crazy

Nos sens sont nos films- Our senses are our movies
Nos pauvres marrionnettes - Our poor puppets
Nos sens sont les chemins - Our senses are the paths
Qui mènent droit à nos têtes - That leads right to our heads

La Bombe Humaine - The human bomb
Tu la tiens dans ta main - You hold it in your hand
Tu as l'détonateur - You have the detonator 
Juste à côté du coeur - Right next the heart
La Bombe Humaine - The human bomb
C'est toi elle t'appartient - It's you it belong to you
Si tu laisses quelqu'un - If you let someone
Prendre en main ton destin - Take control of your destiny
C'est la fin.... mhm la fin - This is the end.... mhm the end
mhm la fin mhm la fin - mhm the end mhm the end

Mon père ne dort plus - My father doesn't sleep
Sans prendre ses calmants - Without taking his calming pills
Maman ne travaille plus - Mom no longer works
Sans ses excitants - Without is exitants
Quelqu'un leur vend - Someone sells them
De quoi tenir le cou-ou-ou-ou-oup - Something to stick it out

Je suis un éléctron - I am an electron
Bombardé de protons - Bombed of protons
Le rythme de la ville - The pace of the city
C'est ça mon vrai patron - That's my real boss
Je suis chargé....... d'éléctricité - I'm loaded ..... of electricity

Si par malheur - If unfortunately
Au coeur - Ine the heart
De l'acccélérateur - Of the accelerator
J'rencontre une particule - I meet  particle
Qui mène aux allumeurs - Wich lead to lighters

Mh noooon, ' faudrait pas que j'me laisse aller- Mh noooo, It wouldn't take that I let myself go
Posted at 10:37 - 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
Around the clock  
Newer Post Home
The wrath of Galatea  

Texts archives

   November (1)
   October (1)
   August (1)
   June (1)
   April (1)
   February (1)
   January (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