created April 7, 2014
24 texts translate to read (still 5 currently in translation)


Sunday, March 19, 2017
Second breath
February 21, 2017 - 6:07 at la Comelle
It is believed that the beginning is easier to reach than the end even if one checks every day at any startup that this is not really the case. White pages, blocked car, broken down computer or procrastination, cold muscles, first cry, do you remember at least how it all started? Origin escapes, it is the lines of arrival that memory keeps, the victorious podiums, the scathing failures, the true ends, the place where one stands depends on which one has left. No doubt this is the reason why one constantly tries to find out more, how did I get there? In the best or the worst, it is the origins that direct but when the end and the beginning coincide perhaps we become able to pass through the secret gates, those who take the mysteries without revealing them, in the midst of the wonderful, diving in chaos, that is not why we understand it.
The world turned around I don’t know why, you're there, you're gone, I keep mixing everything up. It was like a hurricane, a kind of tsunami unless it was more like an earthquake with a titanic tidal wave, by force to force of the wind in all directions I brought you back and at the same time, almost to the same moment it seems, the frame exploded, he left, you will never meet him. It seems to me that we have parted a little while ago and that an eternity has passed since our meeting but sometimes also, far from you it is the reverse, our meeting has just happened and it seems to me that an eternity space our finding. Over time[1], the unremitting sweetness of love mingles with the melancholy of the lost future. I listened to this song of Ferré in a loop, passage after passage nothing dulls what it contains. Far, one has the impression sometimes to love with a tenfold strength as if love became pure, with time on the contrary, one loves more and more.
I thought I was done with these texts, the zigzags and the back and forth, it made sense. But we are mistaken about true beginnings and false ends, we knead everything until we no longer know anything. I keep guessing you, to look for the rhythm, can one tell the miracles? Should we let it go or take the bull and how not quite grasp it? There must be a world above our world where the lost people wait for the passages to be found, then it would be us, the wanderers, who dare hardly hope to join them. Over there may be everybody’s here, but I would not want a paradise populated with scoundrels, maybe there are only people we already love that we find. In your footsteps, my three wobbly ingredients in the hand, keep floating, it's your music that I listen now, besides mine. Why so many likenesses between love and melancholy sometimes To the end, to the hole[2]? Between two songs a frosty fog on the road to Vermenton I fork at Cravant, sun on the banks of the Arroux, the tangled streets of La Machine, caves of Father Leuleu along the Cure, I pass by the sources of Yonne to Glux and I run along the river when it was small, summer moons, starry nights, grace to the wind turbines and the light of the Morvan[3], the rest of the warrior, at the end of my fingers your hands, your arms surround me finally. Perhaps that so do I, by force, to understand nothing one day I will succeed my artistic outlet. At the Circus of the End of the world[4], the paths which smell hazelnut, together no more need to send words in the wind, close to your pocket henceforth, within reach of your heart, at the end of your voice, beside me my angel. On the road the trucks are scrolling, I thought a gulf would open, fluorescent pink in the twilight, I will continue to whisper my secrets, by dint of dreams sharing, the puzzle is reconstructing. Poetry is real, it is not far away, it does not vanish when one found. The miracle, one would like to describe it, but tell dizziness is to destroy it. One loves as one has been loved, perhaps that in order to recognize each other we have been loved the same way, perhaps that to know each other we had to love this same exact way, it is probably my pretext to explain all the mystery, all that we have called coincidences, the marvelous, joy and happiness. Even when you will relate me, I will continue to rummage in all directions, there is no more absurdity.
It happens that one wins and loses at the same time and that happiness makes you sob with the same intensity as the greatest pains, I know now, some nights of drownings, love and wound coexist in the same moment. I fall asleep in your arms, my dreams don’t frighten you anymore, I invent that I join yours. I repeat Don't be afraid, but it seems at certain moments that nothing can prevent my mind from panic, everything that does not change, the next time. I can't renounce to my anger, but perhaps one day your calm will have completely absorbed it. Grace to you, grace to me, the chain is no longer missing. The silhouette of the old solitary chestnut trees is a little blurry through my tears, a bluish haze invades the hills, clumps of jagged vegetation draw perfect curves and black peaks stand out as far as the eye can see in the fields. This year the colors of autumn blew my heart, the sun of this icy winter still contains germ of spring[5], I will continue on his return to admire the flowers of my garden with my eyes of love , and summer will come back, inevitably. I'm going to resume my labyrinth drawings, my useless plans, maybe I'll dare take some awkward photos, it's not for remembrance or to reassure me, nor a homage, maybe it's this that I have learned, my way of seeing the world, the beauty transmitted to the bottom of my eyes. Between the excesses and the nuances, find the good angle, the color gradient, one believed that the old and tired heart will let go first and then no, it is the stomach that fails. One say it or not, even thinking it all day long, but words don’t fill everything, there are those that are delayed to formulate and those that will be pronounced otherwise, your place will never move, I carry our name now.

I am unable renouncing to understanding the world, even if it confuses me more and more, as if the paths now erased had become some views from the mind. I can only return to listening, it is the others who guide you and give you hope. In bookstores, in my opinion the last true place of freedom, voices come back. We always have the choice, it has never been simple, we can make of this complexity something exciting though. And if the worst atrocities persist, cynicism and dishonesty, the miraculous stand up from now on.

myriam eyann

[1] I am referring here to a French song, Avec le temps (With the Time), of Leo Ferré, french songer. Here is an awkward translation of a choosen passage With the time everything goes away..... With the time we don’t love anymore
[2] French song by Arno, Jusqu’au bout, jusqu’au trou
[3] I speek about some places of Burgundy, in France. Cravant and Vermenton, La Machine, Glux en Glenne are smalls towns, l’Arroux is a river, l’Yonne and la Cure eather, Caves of father Leuleu are Caves of Arcy, Morvan is where I live.
[4] Le cirque du bout du monde is an area of nature in Burgundy
[5] If winter said spring is in my heart who would believe it? Khalil Gibran

Posted at 10:15 - 0 comment

Sunday, November 22, 2015
October 12, 2015 - 8:16 am at the mill

During my archi studies, at a class on colors, we have had an exercise about palletes, a classic. This was to compose a grayscale, a line of smalls squares of paint from black to white in gradually mixing two painting hazelnuts.
The teacher gave us each these two initial hazelnut white and black, we only had this material available, no rab, it was one of the goals of the exercise. Each nut was divided into two parts, we add white or black on one of the two samples leaving the other intact, then work again on this first mixture, darkening or lightening in stages. Brushing samples we were seeking  a maximum of shades between black and white, dosing, repeating the operation to obtain the most progressive gray palette.
The exercise extended with several colors, blue, green, yellow, magenta, purple. At the end of the session we had large sheets of samples of different colors.

During the next lesson, we had to setup our pallets with these grades, it was to cut the grays on our leaves and then stagger it. Small squares of paper of the first step were glued following each other to a gradient line. We began with the range of gray then each color to a composition line by line.
Everyone observed the same order in the choice of colors, we should all have the same color chart. At the end of the course, the calibrated boards of each were post up for comparison, each gradient was unique, no one had the same.

The process is particularly challenging, you must find the median shade. At the time of sampling - the painting step - you believe that the first mixture is decisive, and decide that it will represent the middle of the shade but there is often too much white, it is too bright. You multiply blends being careful to constantly keep some black and white untouched so you must not deplete too soon this reserve. Each dosing is precious for maximum shades, each test contains the missing gray.
After three mixtures which has produced around ten shades of gray each, if everything goes well, you have about thirty different tone of the same color, you can not see anything anymore, you no longer seek what is missing, you lost the thread of the gradient, you collect the most possible gray before the teacher asks to wash pallets. When everyone has put to dry her first gray sheet,  teacher deliver the next color hazelnuts by hazelnuts, table to table, and we go to the blue sheet, then green and so on.

During the next phase - the laddering - we resume with the gray palette. After cutting fifty gray squares, you have to classify, rank, select, and then arrange the selection on a line length of 80cm. The table is covered with a gray puzzle, everything ends up look alike.
At the end of the course, in front of the displayed results and shabby badly degraded board that you succeeded to output in the prescribed timing, mostly ofthe time you hate the colors or at least you don’t want to hear about it for weeks .
I can still hear the teacher checking our work, he had a strong accent, I don’t remember which country he was from : Di yo end up yo pelatta of grrrree?

For my work, I note on notebooks at any time of day, night sometimes, ideas, projects or thoughts. At one point I had organized themed boxes to group books, notebooks, loose leaf, but even the boxes themselves ended up to multiply: Suggestion Box (post-it notes and loose papers, theme notebooks to infuse not accomplished ideas, plans, sketches), Writings Box (an entire cardboard of narratives pieces, more or less abandoned fictions, titles books, written in course (I still have one), etc.) Box of Notes (notes on my reading, summaries, reading directory, thematic developments from these notes, etc.), Personal Box (autobiographical writings, attempted self-portraits, several years of diary, notebooks traveling notes (often pocket books for the car ...), Images Box (photos, pictures cut from newspapers, reproductions, postcards), Bulk Box (for the rest, there’s always some unclassifiable). And a Workbook to organize this organization .

An irresistible exponential rise increase the inputs like the foolish tumor cells which don't  have more space. Forgotten leaf at the end of a book that was not intended to receive sentences that are written in it, sub-rankings,  sub-box, boxes in boxes, ideas in the idea.
From what I read, what I think and what I write there is yet no amalgam.

Creativity is a good thing, you get used to these small explosions in the head, although you end up even loving these explosions but sometimes it's like a bomb. Creativity must explode outside the brain otherwise it does implode. This is the only solution, it has to come out, to stagger the dispersed samples that arise in my mind.
Anything that disrupts the functioning of what works, storms that destroy trees, malformations of the beings, diseases, exponential progressions and everything which is crooked is legitimate. Since one cannot eradicate, one must make room for it.

Association of ideas, chaffing, gaps and cracks, lock, shift, unfold the ideas, understanding what is not straight. I am looking for a coherence, harmony, a nice gradient, a progression. If you scatter yourself you become elusive to the point of losing yourself but one can make sense of everything even to absurdity. If we can not fix a mess we have to accept its purpose and what it involves.

How to use what is broken and mixed with what is not so that what we believed destroyed should not perish and that what is in good condition but no longer makes sense find one. What do we do of what can't be fix up but does not disappear?

Recently rereading the Little Match Girl, a tale of Andersen, I wondered what could evolve humanity now, what could repair in it  what no longer works. It seems that the mechanism has jammed, the same nightmare recurs, match girls don't disapear and instead multiply.

When you can not afford a future you remain trapped in the moment, with all the consequences that entails. The future never stops being an illusion, you only own a past made of up and downs, the moment paradoxically remains elusive and fundamental.
One day you end up burning the matches left in the box, you burn the box, not to destroy the last cartridges but to use the energy to the end, even exhausting it. The reason we wish that is both a gesture of despair, anger and oddly also a kind of detachment, a distance that allows to say: what good to keep these matches. If I was the Little Match Girl, indifference ends by being indifferent to me, I would do what I have to do and will burn my last matches .

I wondered if the lassie knew she was lighting only illusions. Why would she hesitate to do so as one jumped into the water or as someone climbs on board an overloaded-boat-that-will-sink-anyway-but-maybe-not, look at the shore far off, repeat again, something is going to happen, I'm almost there. You throw yourself into the sea because there is  nothing more to lose, one gives his life in pledge, the only thing we own if you think about it.

Maybe the Little Match Girl was not so innocent one might think, she knew exactly what she was doing. Innocence, unconsciousness, with a good deal of cynicism, one spread out the mixture  on the scale of responsibility, an hazelnut of culpability in reserve to darken or lighten the color chart, guilty on one side, victim on the other.

On the other side of the windows the existence of this shivering kid and the illusions which nourishes her are well known ,  the indifference goes on to look without seeing, saying it's not about me and what I can do there, well this girl all this may be a little of her fault . Finally the indifference pretends to see nothing and protects itself at the ends of stratagems she doesn’t even need to look away.
From the side matches, like the little girl, you brighten up what is left, the essential, the love we keep in ourselves is the ultimate energy.

Love is not an illusion and it is not just a feeling. It is also an act as there are acts of anger and despair. We love a child with gestures of tenderness, he is cuddled, you rocks him, we enfold friends in wide arms, we hug each others, in the arms of one another at every opportunity.
The act of love is real, it is a truism bestially real in the most noble sense of this word if you are able to hear the animal from where you come, the human beast in itself. We stick against another body and simply in this contact it is told that we love him, all human beings have this ability, or have had, or result from this act and from the desire that it should be a gesture of love, even if that act is missing, twisted, damaged, it is never indifferent.

Discuss the innate or acquired of the impulse of love in mammals is not under my authority, but nevertheless I have my own ideas, birds also raise and defend their young, one can see here only mechanical. Is it the human race who invented love and feelings?
I think love is a constituent of life, of all life. I am able to love a tree or an insect, it is not so absurd to imagine that the plant in my living room are responsive to my right care than talking to a God in the clouds, entrust him with our hopes and even our future, however it is much more real. As a nurse I know a lot about the real, is not that I am proud of.

It seems to me indecent to keep calm. Don’t be angry in this world seems impossible. But of all my feelings the one I prefer is love. I am seeking for the nuance.

To raise an illusion we must take power somewhere, a match or something, I use my own story, the energy available to me, even if it means burn my fingers and each time as if it were my last cartridges.
On blank pages you can draw words instead of those which are missing, lucky charms, words to no longer lose, words of love necessarily. On a blueprint you stretch lines, you build illusions and then one day they become cathedrals. In my head there are dreams, people, sharing and meetings, a new society, some are broken but they don't have give up the ghost and if I handle it well, if my technique and organization are good, and even if I can no longer see the little gray squares scattered on the table, even though I don’t understand the usefulness of this gradient scale, at the end there will be a line that belong to me. Besides all other attempts, the one that I will calibrate will exist. I keep on built it. I ain't got other matches.

myriam eyann


> The Little Match Girl
Posted at 8:55 - 0 comment

Monday, October 5, 2015
Blue Hours
Saturday, September 12, 2015 - 1:36 p.m., on tour in Sens

I feel so good this morning, radio broadcasts a French song "La Fête" of Michel Fugain, I am fitting, sense of victory and all powerfulness, life is an everlasting repetition. See life in pink should be fine but I have the idea that we don’t choose the color of the iris which stains our own eyes. Mine are blue, my existence is blue rather than pink.

Until recently like Lucky Luke has his Jolly Jumper a pretty little blue car accompanied me, we shared the same twilight after all, the same pink mornings, back and forth, motorway service areas. I drive a lot, nurse tour, ballads, escape, travel, there are only pretexts.

Freewheeling ideas, provided the road to be endless and unclear the destination. Driving is an aesthetic pleasure, elegant curves and precise trajectories, indoor and outdoor rhythms mingle, I turn up the sound, a single song can busy myself for a good week, with the best I hold a couple of week, with an album several months. Outside the images pass, inside the coil roll once and by turns unfolds, I let it go.
I learned very early, very small, to suspend me behind the windows. On the road there are only surprises. A good way to flee.

We take refuge in a car for shelter, rain, cold or any bad weather, full heater. Sometimes it's not about roads, without reason to start as much remain stopped. Regressions nestled in the front seat pulled down to the maximum, even lightning strikes can’t reach me. When you can’t keep up the movement, a good tactic is to focus on what moves all the time, on the undefined places always changing, all that has no shape. No man's land or any stretch of deserted asphalt, sometimes under trees, bridges, motorway service areas still.

The problem with the parcelling out is that it is generally against-productive, a defense mechanism that serves only to flee. But the puzzles already contain the image even if the parts are disjointed or if there are some missing, each is interesting only because it is part of a solution more greater than it is. You can do lots of absurd things with the jigsaw chunks , another creation that might make sense, or remain absurd, let bulk pieces and enjoy the parts one by one independently of each other, disperse them, keep some in a box that would mention small jigsaw puzzle ends that are useless, collecting scattered fragments that don’t go together, or many other things probably.

Sometimes I get out a pen, colored markers in the car door, I trace, rature, I look at the lines. At worst by taking the road again, there's always a way to engage the automatic flight control.
I can’t tell the whole journey. There has been blue hours, pink moments and rainbows shades, confidences between patients, heavy sentences, screams I confess, clenched fist above the clutch, I tap three or four times on it to celebrate my victories, I have my rituals.

The blue hour is the one that is spread out between the end of the day and the total darkness, it is not me who called so, this is really its name. This year, the return Sens-Nemours was broadcasted in the evening twilight series, just the right axis, wide-angle, long and short sequences, the frequency is good, flawless reception, I made almost full season. Straight lines allow to appreciate the finish, heat wave and drought color stratus slender on high, lightweight mottle cumulos on the horizon, candy pink and china blue are very far from reality, my words will always miss the nuance.

The blue hour is as elusive as fascinating, the dying day offers what it holds most beautiful and most touching. It makes you wishing being there the following day to see more, again. It says something in my head, a lot of stuff actually.
Give all you got, don’t surrender anything, whatever the moment even the last of the day there are no limits to what can be accomplished as long as you exceed these limits. The blue hour every night in the same place renews itself different.
In the morning it is the reverse as in a mirror, Sens-Nemours at the time when the sun rises. The picture is fleeting, it changes seconds after seconds.

This world spins from the same unseen forces that twist our hearts, nobble adequate sentences at the right time is a custom, there is always one good sentence, a good tune, a beautiful picture to accompany the various moments of existence. Here it is still a film, Cloud Atlas, a big naivety brings my discoveries and at the same time prolongs them, but I let it go, with the trust nice things are happening. My collections accumulate, morning or evening, soon or later, just wait for the right time, according to the seasons, the paths, enjoy  sunset or dawn.
It's good to get a good music to go with an obsession, to find a song when we can no longer speak, a slightly complicated words, a white loop that necessarily has a meaning. I listen to know each modulation sound, intonation, rhythm changes, Boundaries between noise and sound are conventions, all boundaries are conventions waiting to be trancended. One may transcend any convention if only one can first conceive of doing so. (Cloud Atlas again)
This is a song by Julien Doré, it fits perfectly with  twilights, departures, victories and memories. Her name is Corbeau Blanc and gives me back the legend. I enjoy interpreting the words as if they were addressed to me, they become clear if my reference frame decrypts them. My inner world is a key to open the outer worlds, a different key exists inside each person, you can understand anything  if you have the key even if to find it you must believe for a while that you are omniscient.

I read an essay by Brian Greene, The Hidden Reality, exposing research physicists, mathematicians, astronomers and other scientists on the parallel worlds. It is written by an astrophysicist of the most serious, I let myself go, so to trust. He explains string theory, brane theory, some of Einstein intuitions, multi inflationary universe and the universe bubbles, cyclical universe, he speaks of repetition, of gravity, particles, of the eleven dimensions of space-time, on the order of the cosmos. The images that this reading arouses me and the information it gives me give birth to these world in my mind, I focus on their appearances. Every minute contains an infinite and a whole universe of possibilities, everything is both relative and interconnected. The dimensions are all around us but simply too small for any of us to see.

Running in circles is certainly not a bad thing. Life repeats itself, the days come and go, we spend time doing the same mistakes. Repetition is necessary for a beautiful loop. Brian Greene, detailing the brane theory explains that as loops don’t end, the branes can’t trap them.
The branes are worlds, universes or tiny entities. Following the path of the loops, my thoughts float, my dreams turn, images play back one above the  other, overlap, hide or blend, swirl. Only a pretty loop allows to escape, musical loop, line loops, semantic loops, time loops and blue hours.
Love is probably a holy loop, a meaning loop .

We don’t all have the same loops, we definitely don’t live in the same worlds, sure, but the important thing is to find at least one to join, even if it is smaller, fleeting than we fisrt hoped. Perhaps in these stories of another world, we always want too many.

My blue car had a name like all my cars, it is from my Noddy side . It may witness of a multitude of words as blue as his car body, dreams into spiral and idea on orbit, some natural satellites gravitating only around it, it kept the traces of distant galaxies such a small world, a universe, an unspoiled membrane, a bubble.

I dare confess that I fell asleep in the car better than in my bed and that my sleeping there was sweeter than anywhere, no matter the place where it was, open country or supermarket car park, Marne edges , Burgundy, Provence or Paris alley, dog days or freezing morning, highways and seashores, and Alpine winding road. Forty five months, a hundred and thirty two thousand kilometers, when I think about, a piece of bush.
Work Tool, office, traveling cave, my best hiding place.

Leaving his own island is like canceling the attraction of what magnetized you there, you must invent an opposite magnet, far away, failing his true existence you have to  believe in it. Reversing his own gravity is like an act of faith. We want the pain to go away while at the same we want it to remain.
There is a night between the beauty of a twilight and those of an aurora borealis

The nudity one gives is certainly not a gift, it is also not an answer. But it happens from time to time as in the song of Julien Doré, for "be let off."

In my head there is a blue sky space, in my hand a memory of the exact same color. Maybe we can’t keep the memories in full and in order to survive we have to cut them into small pieces that fit in the pocket, agree to keep only a part, a brightness of the puzzle, a piece of blue and believe that each piece of the whole is in the right place now.

myriam eyann


> links
Posted at 11:18 - 0 comment

Tuesday, August 4, 2015
Much to say it
Sunday, June 28, 2015 - 5:31, Brussels
It puzzles me that  the danger can be search for itself, adrenaline as a stimulant such as bungee jumpers. On the other hand the quest of tightrope walker on his wire is clear to me, the balance that allows him not to fall, knowing that the fall can mean death according to the height of the wire and in the absence of net. I prefer to be a tightrope walker as bungee jumping, although I’m not sure whether you choose to be in one category or the other, or even a third much more different, a fourth, fifth ...

There are a few years, an artist told me about my drawings Don’t hesitate to put yourself in danger. This sentence has never stopped trouble me because I've never understood exactly as if the capacity to do so were not available to me as the infinite is a limit to the modeling of the human brain, my mind can’t integrate this concept. It’s not a disability or handicap but a characteristic of my psychic construction.

I tried, not to put myself in danger - I am unable to consciously put myself in danger - but to decrypt this.
Drawing is my refuge, draw can’t put myself in danger even if I wanted to. To draw allows me to cross the limits, to go see behind the lines, this is what protects me.

The tightrope walker who meticulously prepares its crossings can’t penetrate the void if he feels in danger there. On the wire you have to be whole, on the wire you’re not allowed to be parceled out, it is probably for this reason that you can't  feel unsafe there.

Drawing, writing and reading are my tools to unstitch riddles and search for keys constantly, sometimes in my turn I send warrens on the fly, it’s true, even in a void we would like a company. Walking on my thread doesn’t put me in danger even if it makes me take risks. There is no other choice to dwell this wire continuously, when resolve this situation becomes insoluble the danger resurfaced.

Philippe Petit is a famous tightrope walker, known for his crossing between the tops of the towers of the World Trade Center in 1974. He says I'm not afraid to fall, because I can’t fall.

No matter the reasons why we decided to enter the void, brave danger or living on a wire when the important thing is what is there.

It is obvious that the risks Philippe Petit takes to cross the void are paltry face of what he will look for in there. He is the physical proof if any were needed that evolve in its own void is not a virtuality provided to find the void which we belong or the one we have, which comes to the same.

We can transmit such feeling only by imitation, from its way to the wire without talking to me I hear : Keep on walking to explore your wire

Much to say it,  I know perfectly where is my emptiness, I’m aware of its danger. Like Philippe Petit I don’t throw me on my cable without knowing what I do, without having worked my technique and setup to the ultimate points of clarification, without training or warming up. From time to time in order to progress you have to be a little beyond your own capacity however tickle the danger you might get hardly aware of it and takes the risk of failure.

In New York in 1974, handcuffed when he came down the cable, to the American officer who asked him why he had taken such a risk, Why? Philippe Petit has answered There is no why.

Marina Abramovitz, expert in vacuum, said other words. I noted his talks viewing a video : You have to be ready to fail, go to the unknown territories. If I’m really afraid of ideas this is exactelly the point I have to go. If you don’t taste your mind you’ll never change, always in the same sheet again and again. If you do things you don’t know, something different happen. This is about how you occupied physically the space and why.

There are a multitude of ways to enter the void, with sentences upside down in the same direction, artists, creatives and tightrope walkers help me to progress and find the pace. In vacuum there are several versions of the same thing, of the same word or even of one thought. To convince oneself of that, just replace the word with another,  you can call vacuum, void, empty and wire differently, love, it, myself, top[1], shit, in the end you see what I mean!

Much to say it, even if I decided to come back to earth the ability of some to put me back in orbit once they express themselves come near to the scandal and much to say it honestly, after a stunning phase, would tend to get me a little angry. Because much to say it, some words have the ability to make of me a jigsaw puzzle, and placed end to end, sentences into sentences, dislocate me as effectively as an explosion, scattering me soon as they find me as if they  exactly knew where I am as a whole full. I don’t know where I am every time these " zigzag letters" find me, especially when I start to think it's me they are seeking. Fragmentation can be incredibly painful, but what I mean never is.

Step by step, walk properly outside of wires has become more and more complicated. Out of the empty I lose my balance, my great torment is to leave it, my daily fears are about the dangers waiting for me on the way down.

Some days not like the others, however, I confess, I avoid any empty, unable to hold it. My mind would want, my body refuses, there is no solution, tracking down the answer doesn't changes anything. It is impossible for me to understand why, if I knew I would make sure that these moments don't exist anymore. It is not the solution but the problem which is interesting. With patience anyway, the solution finds me.
Fear and devils vacuum exist at the same time as the danger that nobody can make disappear, but I still remember the words of Philippe Petit. You are not afraid of what you love, though I'm afraid of a tarantula I'll get to know it better, we should not allow fear to feed our minds.

Much to say it, in my case it's hard not to walk in this kind of vacuum.

Despite the contradictory injunctions and prohibitions morbid, Don’t go, Go ahead, Protect yourself, Don’t put yourself in danger, You have to take risks, Think, Stop tortuting your brain, You're breaking it[2], Jump on the top of the world, Be serious, Don’t tell stories to yourself, a vital force pushes exploration.

One should not "say anything against the balance."

Philippe Petit said of his art it allows him to join two shores, to bring people together finally, for dialogue, to link, the image is full of poetry.

Daydreaming on that bridge between two shores, I thought of all the unlikely things that occur when you stop get around them. I remembered a nice story, things joining things, the wires, letters, love and emptiness.

During the First World War, young girls send letters to the soldiers on the front, they have been called Godmother of war, the aim was to support a soldier at the front without knowing him beforehand. My paternal grandparents met through this cross letters and decided to get engaged without ever having encountered. What could bring the heart of a Breton from that of a Burgundy[3] at the end of the Great War remain their mystery, the magic of their encounter is a legacy.

Since 1917 the communication progress has multiplied entrance doors, watch my letters box, emails, text messages or any kind is a daily activity to which I devote myself with an almost religious concentration. Build a dovecot is an interesting alternative to which I think with more and more details, multiply shelters and feeders for all types of birds an investment for the future probably unavoidable. Just in case, my little balcony on the Loing is full of them.

In the void I gleans the words that belong to me, those that leave the people of emptiness, I sows in it for they concern only a one person. In the empty I draw words which have lost their meaning, I invent letters and syllables that don’t express.

Much to say it, to keep a secret it has to become more and more secrecy, such way that even the angels who listen to the doors shouldn’t know the ropes, but the biggest drama when one plays hide and seek is that no one finds us.
Much to say it, I’m not anyone's official muse, that is to say that nobody has claimed me as  a muse and I don’t see why anyone would.

In the vacuum "We don’t know anything except that we don't want to stop" to be in.

"Explain it to me! Explain it to me! "

myriam eyann

[1] In the French text I was making a pun on roof (toit) and you (toi), which is impossible to translate.
Well,  I replaced this with another play on words ... after all it is me who writes
[2] Another pun here lost in translation, se la péter (about the head) mean be puffed-up and by extension can be hear as to break it. I choose to translate the pun rather than the expression which mean to be pretentious
[3] La Bretagne is close to the Atlantic Ocean, and Burgundy in the center. This is really a true story !


> About Philippe Petit and other tightropers
Posted at 22:17 - 0 comment

Friday, June 19, 2015
Sunday, June 7, 2015 - 10:49 am - Sens ... or close to

I don’t know what came over me. The urge to talk is necessary, not to justify myself or exculpate me but to prolong the sensation.

I'm not sure to have a guardian angel, perhaps I decided that I didn't want it anymore. Maybe I wanted to put my inner witness to the test, or fuck them at the door quite simply, find an easy way to get rid of them, or disappoint them.

Maybe it was question of break something beautiful or bring up a lousy thing or that both intentions converge to a same résult.

It wasn’t difficult, I don’t see why it should have been.

If we could do twice this stuff, I would like do it again.

In stores one finds little cherubs everywhere, more or less endearing cherubims who don’t even look at you, of infants who embody tenderness and love, gaze in the vague, resin ornaments in glass bubbles. I found some for my interior, most of the time they are asleep or pray eyes closed. Watching them calms me down, they who don’t see me.

There's one on the furniture which I use bedside, he’s curled up inside two resin hands clasped to form a hollow, it’s look like that gesture that is made for collecting water in palm, the angel is protected without being locked up, it makes him a shelter, a nest, he’s there sleeping totally disarmed.
You can light a small blue light that made a halo behind his wings. I like him, this little trinket calm me down, I turn off the light on some nights and look before falling asleep myself. I have been fond of him at once, it looks like nothing can happen to him, it’s reassuring of knowing him there or to notice that nothing scares him. Indeed he’s sleeping but I dare to think that in his dreams he's watching over me. Sometimes I take these hands in mine, they are exactly my size, it's sweet. The feeling of peace becomes physical.

So what came over me ?

I was listening loop to a song by Massiv Attack , Angel, making my drawings I often spend several weeks that way with the same song to the point of obsession. After sometimes, I watch the clips on YouTube.
In this one, a man is in a deserted parking, walking worried, turn around. Then another came up behind him, quickly two, three. The man hasten his steps, the others too. It comes from everywhere now, he started running in the parking and more and more follow him, they comes out from every corner. He began to flee with long strides, a chase begins, a horde at his heels, they seem angry, determined, some are screaming. The man is frightened, desperately he run, a whole bunch of clichés arise in my mind at the sight of this clip, will they lynch him, this man looks fragile, alone, it might be me. They went out of the parking now.
I will not reveal the end of the story, one should not do that and it would reduce the impact.
When all hope is lost, there remain some still.

We look at what we need at the right time and miss the rest without paying attention. I think the chance is like winning the lottery, you can’t deny that it happens but it’s rather uncommon. I thought what can prevent you from rebelling yourself exept what you believe or don’t believe.

Maybe the little angels of stores began to annoy me. I like my angel and the feelings it gives birth in me or those that it make me remember. Holding hands which protect it, I thought that the only thing to cherish whatever happens is that loving feeling and no matter the image it takes, an angel, another being or an idea of humanity, an object or action that we like and which itself is a way to protection.
I thought there is plenty of other things that could take the place of the angel in the palm of these hands, images came into my mind, a house, pencils, a land, a tree, a bird, a cat even if it disappeared. I thought about people who are no longer there, of course, to my heroes too, one could put a book or two there or an entire library, monuments, Artworks, cathedrals.
Suddenly I realized that this is what is the darker in me, what is the more ugly and unconfessed which is the most vulnerable, that would most need the protection of these hands. There has been other images, not necessarily the ones we want to see, I thought of my job as a nurse, the care, to what I do and see every day, to what I protect because I don’t talk about.
I thought of my children and their future, of our society and what other people would choose to protect in the hollow of these resin hands , what they lay at their bedside. And this innocent angel became an insult to everything that must remain hidden in the name of survival.

I don‘t want to destroy the love or this feeling in me. What I wanted to smash was the way how it manipulates me every day. It's like Gollum and Smeagol in Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. One believes a while that one can live without the other, we think we know who deserves to live and who must be annihilated, what is good and what is evil, who has to  heal from the other, just kill unhealthy part to find happiness and health. But in the history of Tolkien, Golum and Smeagol are the same creature, inseparable they live together and die together, a history of schizophrenia it will be said, just to be sure that all this doesn’t concern us.

I’m full of water like a vase overfilled ready to overturn, a liquid inside is about to jump in a jet, why does any single drop no pearl however, where does such accumulation come from? In general there is a leak somewhere for example a tap not closed, just a few millionths of a cubic meter of any liquid, after several hours, months or even more and that is flooding. It must be several years, we don’t realize, one say it will evaporate or the earth will absorb, it will dry, it will be sponge, and then no, a big puddle shaped underground, a pool, an indoor sea and when you feel the weight of water is that the cavity is turned about to give in, beyond its elastic limit. I don’t know from where comes the leak, even less since how long I take on the water, perhaps forever.
This is not entirely honest ok, but it’s my own business, and then what does it changes to know the origin of a malformation, it’s not why you became exempt to live with.

I bought two copies of the same angel to not hurt the one who sleeps with me. I took a small hammer and taped, in the heads, in the wings, in the hollow of the hands. It wasn’t difficult as I said, on the contrary rather interesting, except that the resin is hard as a rock and I had to put all my strength in it, find the weak points to break these angels and snatch their wings while at preserving the hands and the blue light.
It was about destroy the angels but not the gesture that protects them, this gesture can continue to exist even if the angel disappeared, so long as the blue light is still there you can invent a lot of things to be protected, it was necessary to protect the gesture.

I'm not a victim, my wounded angel keep on dreaming and curls up in the palm of my hands. One can’t spend time to flee in order to protect what is loved from destruction, his own life, his shelter, a person or several persons, ideas or a project, the pain we want to keep untouched, suffering which is cherished. Comes a time when you stop to recoil.

In the workshop I put both injured hands, one holds the remains of a mutilated angel and the other a void to fill. I did some tests with small objects, pretty things, some frightful, symbols, what scares or what reassures, what for which I’m concerned and I couldn’t maybe protect, what is making my strength and my secret shadows.

I found this phrase from Ralph Waldo Emerson :The way of life is wonderful,  it is by abandonment. I really wanted to lay down weapons in these open hands. But the intuition that this is not the place to do it is holding me back. Is this about what we are protecting or what protects us ?
I wanted to do the exact opposite, welcome what puts me in danger, what scared and can hurt, certainly not for tame it but to make room for all these terrifying things, all that is not enough to forget to make it disappear, which exists independently of the welcome that I do to it in my conscience or my indifference.

A day will come when totally disarmed indeed, necessarily, other hands will protect me, I will be like the little angel who doesn't worry  about anything and I should trust them. Perhaps am I unable to destroy the hope, is to live with that kills me.

myriam eyann 


> Here Massiv Attacks video clip and shooting serie Angel
Posted at 13:25 - 1 comment

Thursday, April 2, 2015
Saturday, March 14 - 3:30 am– at the mill
For some time, holes appeared in my drawings. These are not quite white or empty areas that balance the compositions - the equivalent of space in architecture - they are rather windows for inputs and outputs, to see through, let something indefinable pass through, a mix of light, wind and dust, may be water, a liquid, a kind of fluid, a positive or negative power, or the two at a time.

In my drawings the traces overlap, superimpose and blend, mask themselves. Pencil's strokes disappear progressively, there has hidden drawings under my drawings. The video is inappropriate to keep the memory of these graphics, or to revive the disappearances of lines, it need another ploy, bridges, galleries, a link between before and after, hollows, openings,  in other words holes.

For some time, holes appeared in my timing, flashbacks, transit areas. Methodically, unconsciously, I go over to all the places I have lived, in very similar contexts, such as second chances. Things I had imagined come true, something began to circulate. And yet it is as if time stopped sometimes.

When you don’t know where you're going, try to find out where you came from. A trace, in my opinion, this is what insists to exist, which doesn’t want disappear. In the ruins it is these traces, moribund but still alive, that interest me. Their insistence is touching. Note the time with precision, at certain times, is my way to pin marks, small flags that float with the wind above the fingerprints, against their disappearance, the gesture is certainly paltry, so much the worse.

For some time, holes appeared in my texts, breakaways are constructed from unlikely links, incongrous references appear, stories are living below, between the meshes. Finally, the sensations associate themselves, images are glued, reasoning intersect to find the path of a nerve impulse. Sometimes myelin that fat neurons in order to guide the information is damaged. For tinkering it, you should know where the holes are.

We can see our own look only into another look, or in a mirror. It seems that We perceive in others the miles facets of ourselves (Carl Gustav Jung). This is what is called the mirror effect. In the eyes of others it is our track we seek. It is said that what we love to another is what we love in ourselves. We pretend not to have to better find the buried portion and loved part of ourselves. Pleasant or not, we encounter the reflections that suit us.

In 2007, I was in second year at the nursing school at Digne les Bains. For a pediatric internship performed in Nice, the encounter of a little autistic girl has been this reflection. Why everyone was afraid to approach this kid, why everybody was talking loudly at his side as if his problem was of not having ears, why everyone was quickly executing the care to enjoy the beautiful babies present in the service?
She didn’t speak, looked at no one, seemed insensible to any action concerning her, unbelievably far away, inaccessible, the vacuum had built himself around her as if it was constitutive of her person, scary caregivers, students, who were guarding a protective distance, probably believing that it is the girl who kept them away. I saw her look through me, she looked at me and then nothing would stop in his line of sight, they continued to scan a skyline which existed only for her, beyond mine.
I was told You can take time, it is good that you take care of her, I was simply unable to set foot in the service without passing an hour or two with her. She was about six years old, already great, but like a rag doll without frame, all limp, very tiny in a bed with bars that kept falling and getting hurt, kind of permanent cage from which she go out only for the toilet in the morning, supported in the service because she refused any food, induced vomiting constantly until having the corners of the lips burned by gastric juices which spent constantly. She had almost permanent reflex to put his hand in the mouth, push it up to the throat, we bandaged her hands to protect her, she couldn’t use it anymore, so couldn’t play. In bed no stuffed toy, no object, caregivers told me She doesn’t care, she’s autistic, you know she doesn’t pay attention to objects, she’s in his world. To feed her a permanent gastric tube, a hole in the stomach - gastrostomy is the correct term - allowed to pass liquid food packaged in pre pocket twice daily. The nurse showed me how to hold firmly to prevent her from snatch the probe when we remade the wound dressing around the stoma. I don’t remember the care but the unfound look of this kid when we operated above her.
Why nobody played with her, why had she not visit, why does she never went out of bed ? Over time I have had the right to be alone with her to her toilet. After soaped and rinsed and then wrapped in a large bath towel, I sat her on the ledge of the window formed like a big bench, instinctively backs against me so that I could surround her with my arms, make a protective gesture and tender without requiring her to look at me, she was not facing me but against me. This is how I dressed my boys when they were little, the gesture seemed natural to me, practical, conducive to hugs. Gradually, do her hair, take care of her as a little girl, make  pretty, give her this feeling, a little longer, I delayed to get her back into bed, install her with a toy, spoke to her, postponed the moment when I would have to replace bandages around his hands. Over days feel like a different welcome, it's silly, doesn’t persuaded yourself of what doesn’t exist, she knows other people here, she stood better, less soft, seemed to wait for me, you are just projecting your expectations on this kid, nothing real.
She loved running in the room, I was watching that nothing can hurt her. I asked to bring her into the playroom, she ran through the corridors like a wild animal, it was hard to follow her and sporty, she sent everything down and frightened the other children, I was content to damage control.
And then it happened. His look, his little black pupils were like two round balls that come from lighting. It will be said that it is an invention to look pretty, I don’t care, that look, with me in my paradise. Now I was doing alone his bandage. It was painful, gently very gently, without  physically held her, watch her all the time, talking to her, I almost whispered, Aya look at me kiddo, Aya sweetie look at me, look at me Aya, she turned the eyes at me and then she calmed down, I was able to finish the care.
Well, I left Aya necessarily. I was told myself a story, she would grow up and become a beautiful young woman, one day she hit my door, You see I'm cured. It was not very lucid and I moved on, it's not smart to light a candle and leave it there, paediatrics you have nothing to do there, you will make the old ones like everyone else, you're not there to fix you on the back of any kid, none  who deserves to bail out for your ugly story. A cross on pediatrics, maybe it suited me, perhaps I started to accept that there are limits to everything, Aya would not heal, as by now I could always believe that she is somewhere to the shelter, his bubble so thin and opaque, maybe after all she will find a way, but it will never be a normal girl, even less a great and majestic metis with curly hair visiting me in the twilight of my life.

When you doesn’t want to see it doesn’t exist, it is a precept that I often applies, according to circumstances, but don’t exist is not an existence. When my first son was born, after the first cry the midwife put him on my heart, he stopped crying instantly, our eyes meet, my emptiness is delimited from that moment, no crying or outbursts, the density of this specific point has emptied the vacuum without make them disappear. Maybe my look before crossing the one of my son was like the one of the small Aya, unlimited, nothing could stop it except the eyes of a newborn, or rather it was imperative facing the first look of my son to build a background in mine, because it was unthinkable to send a void in his eyes when they opened for the first time.

This is not because we don’t see a look that it doesn’t exist. Leave reflect appear, reaching the bottom of the eyes encountered and watch the light shining in, that's the only way to access your own spark, provided to drop your share of nothingness, and feel something behind his back, a different background, a different being to lean on will allow the limit to exist. We don’t turn on the lights in the eyes of another, we seek the traces to illuminate our darkness and check the intensity of our own lights.
It is said that the fireflies were not really extinct, perhaps they fly in the bottom of a retina. No need to learn more and to illuminate that area with excess, a little darkness is needed to approach it and preserve fragile little flame which it protects and on which we should not blow too hard. But for me, it is impossible that the look of the one for who I don’t exist, does not exist. I did not create the look of Aya, I haven’t found out, but I perceive it. It is to love the look of my sons that I tamed nothingness in my eyes. The life of the one for whom I exist, exist, whatever the opportunity of our meeting.

myriam eyann


> Track list
Posted at 23:48 - 0 comment

Saturday, February 28, 2015
The wrath of Galatea

Sunday 1st February 2015 - 24:37, at the mill

It happened to me to dream for several days that the world was emptied, leaving me alone in the streets, in the cities, left to myself but free from all, literally everything, as in 28 days later the Danny Boyle’s film, I am Legend from Francis Lawrence, or other end of the world experiences in solitary. I dreamed of it before seeing these movies, long before, is to say how the knowledge of their achievement came as a relief, a deliverance, one feels less alone by sharing his own fantasies, and discover that those of the end of the world is not my privilege has been a soft shudder.

As a teenager, living dead movies terrorized me. Driven into a movie by a fan girl, the only one seen caused me nightmares for years. As if by chance, my oldest son, since his teens, is passionate about living death filmography, and as with any passion we want to share, over the years, he explained everything to me. Romero necessarily, the aesthetic gore, the distance, nothing in these films is real that what makes them terribly interesting.
Watching him laugh of the special effects, horror became light and outlet. After several films, when we begin to understand what is at stake here, we go back. Horror movies usually stress me too much, but the Undead class this is great.

During my zombie discoveries, identify myself to the survivors has evolved my imaginary capacity on possible apocalyptic skills. The Walking Dead, American TV series that features a survivivors epic's into zombie mid, for all fans of living dead, it is like an exceptional vintage for wine lovers, a giant laboratory, a mental workshop unlimited in size, what would I do if I was with this group, if I had to fight with machete or knife, surrounded, what I decide to survive, what would I want?
Why survive if it is only to continue to survive? When one have saved his skin 6424 times, watching the zombie number 10931 eating the small bowel of the 5847 victim, do we live by automatism or for better days?  No one can only know, so have a good imagination.

For a month, with the recovery of my nurses tours, comings and goings in the heart of the forest of Fontainebleau, between each patient, between two homes, provide an opportunity to daydreams never ending. The Walking Dead has boosted my adrenaline and give to my crossing a magical dimension - in this series the characters are wandering continuously around trees, bushes, always a forest in the legs. At night, on my way, trees silhouettes no longer sleep.

Appear, disappear, end of the world or creation, I thought I was a magician trying to get out the rabbit hat. And then the idea that being the hat rabbit was also within my reach began to settle. After all, the reason for living of a rabbit in a hat is that a wizard makes it appear.
I now believe, truly, it is about concentration, organization, technical and training, of many training. One can become the rabbit in the hat too, provided a solid prerequisites prestidigitation. Throughout the day, this hat history accompanied me. From rabbit point of view, why decide to appear ? Any reward, love, trust, hope of an existence or a recognition, the glory or other dream? The question seemed impossible to solve.
The magic is capricious, when it is found, but the magic ingredient is magic. Disappear is nothing but appear, you must have had this feeling at least once, being born of a desire.
The end of the world, one imagines a long time, we think to cross it from time to time but in the end we never encounter. On the contratry, by dint of making the world disappear, you end up re-create, such as Pygmalion carving Galatea. Originally, the purpose of Pygmalion is to flee women and their desires, he locks himself in his workshop and does what he knows. Beneath his fingers, in his own way, he found what he wanted to make disappear. Pygmalion has so much fantasized the existence of Galatea that he has invented her. It happens sometimes, hat, rabbit, and the wizard. By losing its path, magic is tested.

Sometimes you have to shift the gaze to see something else. That's what I thought one evening of full moon coming back from tour, scanning the perfectly round moon that lit the campaign. If we look at as it shines, if this is that glint that we feels, we can even imagine the sun which transforms it. I thought A full moon set, in fact, for real, it's a flash of sun we look at. Immediately, the world becomes different.

Norman Reedus, the actor who plays Daryl in the Walking Dead series says : I've always said it's interesting to watch devil's cry when angels wants to stab you in the back.
An image of double face came back to my memory, a cartoon monster who terrorized me small. On one side a beautiful head, a young gorgeous woman, gentle and loved. On the other an atrophied face, the symbol of horror, particularly difficult to watch, and quite unhealthy with that, nasty, embittered.
I did not understand  well, the right person seemed trapped in the wrong, or the reverse. It was twins, the first sister was the only one to love and support the second, she spoke to her and consoled, hid her, protected her since the premature death of the mother. The father had been sidelined from a mystery that concerned them both.
In the end, he murders the wicked. Ignoring the secret, destroy the thing he brought forth was the only solution in his eyes, he wanted to release him and his good girl of this fury poisoning their existence, he did not realized he would kill them both Siamese twins once. It was unsolvable anyway, no doubt.

If I were the rabbit and that the magician is not decided to make me appear, or if his arguments to get me out of the hat failed to convince me, tired of war, sitting on the brim of the hat, I will intone the lyrics of this Tom Waits song  to show him that my existence, ultimately, does not depend on his will, You haven’t looked at me that way in years. If I were Galatea I address myself to God of love, the God creator, or to any entity that could have created me, You dreamed me up and left me here. If I was Love in person I would pronounce the same sentences for the chosen of my heart, my soul mate who hides away from me as ugly, as beautiful he is, How long was I dreaming for. If I was any Illusion What was if you wanted me for, an unfinished Dream You haven’t looked at me that way in years, a disappointed and irascible Hope Your watch has stopped and the pound is clear, or the Trust disembodied to be  invest only on proof of his solvency, Someone turned the light back on, and if I became dead alive I will sing this song to Life before going devour the fresh impulse of my unaffected fellows, I love you till all time is gone, the voice hoarse from screaming jailed, or years, excesses, tiredness, shoulders limp,  vanity swallowed, You haven’t looked at me that way in years, I would end up telling him, But I’m still here.

Good feelings, well thinking, honesty, kindness, from cloud to cloud against the God or corpse's guzzlers we don’t easily beats, by dint of believe them disarmed one forgets their double face, unseen anyway, no doubt. God specialist in love and corpse's guzzlers who like the compassion, invest into the flesh of the victim, their feast is perverse by definition. After what I have said of Hell, having been created by the Devil seems likely, at worst he will be himself, perhaps an angel is hidden into, if he betrays me I would too. In the end, anyway, all the dead will be dead.
Appear, disappear, hat outflows, finally, away from the God and his ambitions, I went to dance at Gloria Gaynor, Oh as long as I know how to love I know I'll stay alive, on the shoulders of Galatea angry, D'you think I'd break down and die? Oh no not I, I will survive, Love and Life in the pocket, I've got all my life to live, I've got all my love to give, surrounded by Trust, Hope and Dreams, now I hold my head up high, and all my Illusions, aged sure, but undamaged, And you'll see me, somebody new.

And I'll survive, I will survive, I will survive

myriam eyann


> Illustrations and links
Posted at 9:29 - 0 comment

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)


> In reference
Posted at 10:37 - 0 comment

Friday, January 2, 2015
Around the clock
Friday, December 5, 2014 - 9:08 p.m. - the mill

It seems that people who have lived only in the war, who don't know the calm of peace, can't get used to it, and seek throughout their lives the turmoil of the Real, it seems that the body becomes dependent upon the adrenaline that it secrets to protect from danger or pain, and that like Obelix [1], when you fell into a cauldron of magic potion very young, the effects are permanent, for life.
Round the clock, urgency, as if the neurons didn't know soak itselves on another acid. When you  only have the urgent in mind, you only make the fast stuff, which takes time is always postponed, when the urgent something will stop to be urgent. Join the calm and the people who are inside is a wish always adjourned.

It seems that with stubbornness, a good determination, strength, energy, you can do anything, when you want. In Kill Bill, Uma Turman moves his paralyzed feet  by sheer willpower, maybe that a guy who has a finger in less, concentrating hard, can regrow it. Maybe we can create what we have not and open the impossible.

If I was a prisoner, what might prevent my escape? For some recalcitrant detainees, the outcome will always exist. At worst, run away inside his own brain, creating a world in all its details, let the life drive to clear a path.

Does Paradise has been coined by an inhabitant of Hell?

Watching romantic movies, read pretty phrases, the maxims in anthologies of important sentences that everyone must know for what to do in difficult moments of life, Sometimes all you need is twenty seconds of insane courage twenty seconds of just embarassing bravery, and I promised something great will Come of it [2], I did as they said, my life was going to change, crossing the line is still a promise. The hard part is to find a thought to think about it all the time, a good idea of thinking that lasts.

The Hell Returns are badly accepted, as if they were monstrous in fact, as people who undergo metamorphosis. This is not Kafka 's cockroach which will say otherwise. The unthinkable is the escape.

There should be a reverse disappearance, remove the eyes of people who don't look, a kind of magic, get into the mirror. It would invert there the shocks, for canceling them. The heaviness would be lightweith,  the density empty,  disappear an appearance, the desires realities, the dream an obligation.
If I disappear, I will wipe out the traumatism. Before, to refine the gesture, I would have sent randomly of the wind one or two objects to see, kinds of spies, ahead as scouts. If they come back in part, even in small fragmented pieces hardly recognizable, it would be a proof by contradiction, an almost scientific proof. Disappear would no longer be an illusion. Appear upside down, the reflection of the mirror would start to exist. Does he have the right to change reality, with his identity as a reflection?

Everyone knows that illusions are the secret of wins,  such the invincibility - which is called all-powerfulness, in psychiatric words. Who is embarrassed to live with an illusion?

The reverse disappear would be the opposition to morbid downflooding which such as black holes absorb light and matter. Knowing that mirrors exists changes everything, you  never be alone again when you have a good reflection. Maybe reflections are like soul mates who help themselves to be exactly what they should be. The best shelter is a second heart in addition to the one we already have.

Maybe in the mirror, by observing it good, the inverted reflection would show me how to do the exact contrary opposite of my actions and gestures, I will not force  fate again, I will not be every day warrior or fighter, all things which scare in the body of a woman, even if fighting is not the privilege of a man, I would wait that the desire come  to pick me up, I will  let him do. Impatience would be my promise, I would do princess stuffs, dream of the knight lips, goddess's ruses  , mermaid' tricks, pheromones showers to trace the path,  cunnings of an amorous, secrets, murmurings, I would whisper . If you wake up inside a reflection, like the Jake of Avatar you can start running even though you don't have anymore legs, dwell another life, meet there those who tell you I see you. Cancel the impossible or deny it is similar, inside the fairy tale. Soon or later, you always have to wake up [3].  After a while it's reality that would become the dream, I will choose a nice thought to live with. And perhaps this thought also choose me.
Music, movies, phrases, images, paintings, drawings, dawns and sunsets, through emotions look like what happens when we lean over a void, a mixture of fascination, the disappearance of the impossible, a breakthrough, a link, between atmospheres. If you can reach it, the vacuum provides the abandonments's refuge , if you are indulging by the confidence, if you allowed  dizziness and suction, go to craving, contemplate what seek you, don't be afraid when he takes you by the hand, think of the first dive of your life, the first time you met the water, all the first time, the first real time, those of the discoveries, the beating heart, sweaty palms, ideas turn by themselves in the head, you realize that the shore, that's it, you just let it go.

Going into the vacuum you found what fills. The partition is already in the bodies it seems, you have to imagine an orchestra that vibrates, the sound goes up, the airwaves reverberate, the Real loves echoes. Sometimes, luck or not, it happens that you penetrate the vacuum with someone, or with the help of someone, more rarely with many people, but it also happens. The important to stay together in a vacuum is to move in the same way, to slough off of what weapon, remember that come closer protects the estrangement. The slightest variations in rate are propagated like a boomerang in a circular motion, when the route is clear gestures forget what they do, they no longer belong to anyone or anything, not even vacuum where they are born, and mix without melting. Refine the trajectories, like a fish in the water or a bird in the wind, don't resist to current. Don't catch anything, don't withhold,  reach, wait, don't carry away any verb with you.

Sometimes your whole life boils down to one insane move [4].

Nothing is unlivable, only the dead stop living, even if they continue to be transmitted. You can't understand, you can't know it if you haven't lived it,  if you knew, if you knew, if you knew. These sentences may concern people who can't raise the words of Primo Levi, nor those of anyone, who can't see the Invisible Links from Selma Lagerlöf, and encloses what can't be treat in their own unconsciousness.
Psychic death, the place of the unthinkable, they say. When you go through a cell you know that you exist, you don't have to prove it. Without existence you don't pass upon this. The unliveable is lived, the unthinkable is thinked, and the memory round the clock. The annihilation is if and only if you fail to communicate.

In my opinion, the only way to get rid of the Real is the dilution, file one little here, a little there, even at making his own entourage slightly sticky, and the rest of the world as a tacky jam trace on the finger. The failure of mentalizing is a theory, like the idea that there are jails which one never escape, or inviolable fortress. There is no limit to the psychic representation, despite the dened that gangrene narcissistic flaws to necrosis.

In my opinion, the only way to manage the Real is the sharing, dare excursions, rob him scraps of jouissance, more and more larger, bring back supplies, whole pieces, organize refueling shipments. Dilute the ecstasies around itself, spreading love, make of it a collection no limited by the storage, spreadable worldwide, overwrite if it is necessary.

If I was prisoner what could prevent my reflection to deliver me?

I have a collection of movies, music, books lining my walls since always,  countless drawings full of empty exists, and I can see some, beautiful stories are stored in my brain. The "without" periods doesn't exist. The Heaven is in my head forever.
 myriam eyann

[1] Obelix is a famous character of french coomics books Asterix (see the link)
[2] In We bought a zoo, directed by Cameron Crowe, 2011
[3] In Avatar directed by James Cameron, 2009
[4] In We bought a zoo


> Links
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Saturday, December 6, 2014
Saturday, November 22, 2014 - 10:10 - At the mill

It is said that cats have nine Lives. I think Five is enough. Five possibilities of happiness or misfortune, achievement or failure, seem a busy schedule. Five starts, Five Lives in one single, when I think about it's also five dead unless you have the right to revive the Lives before or staying there a little, from time to time.
It would require Special Authorization, passports and visas for relive previous Lives, proofs that you don’t want to stay there for life, return promises, guarantees that you can travel through time without aftermaths, contracts for repatriation assistance in case of amnesia attack regarding real life, vaccines against generation's muddle, and sufficient solvency required of any traveler who wants to travel.

The procedures for the First Life would be laborious, the information needed to start long to get, but sometimes we could do it. Stay for good would be impossible, the visits would stay under oversight, escort and with a leader, somewhat like a tourist bus that stops only on motorways, to Autogrill and souvenir shops.
But sometimes we manage to escape the guards, to go beyond the eyes of the organizers, we would visit the country in freedom, castles, rivers, we would go down into the magic well, not even for long, review everything as fast possible, remain there, hidden in a corner, no longer return to reality, it will remain as childhood, we would remember everything.
Fairly quickly, however, precarious and disastrous political conditions, the lack of comfort, perhaps bullying or humiliation, undercover situation, would encourage to take the opposite path, backwards. We would ride on the plane back with a heavy heart and the impression of leaving what we love the most in the world, we would turn to the window to whine and when the wheels leave the track, we wouldn’t know anymore if to leave is a betrayal or an opportunity, we would only suffer an injury, that of departures, of tearings, of lost things, of exile.
Long after, a long time after, we will come out the photos, perhaps we’ll fashion an album, we will invent the legend.

Between each Life there would be passageways, sometimes funnel-shaped, doors very complicated to open and almost impossible to cross. We would be never sure to access the next Life, there would always be a risk for the present Life to be the last, and that we can no longer leave or that the boundary between two existences, extremely dangerous territory in some cases, take away Life from you, all the Lives from the beginning, without possibilities of redistribution. The transition from one Life to another can be determined by one thing that has been done, before get away from a Life we should do this thing exactly, or rather the condition for leaving a Life would be that thing, such a sesame, a decision to make, a sentence to pronounce, a person to understand, an act, concrete or symbolic achievement. In that way, we could only do a single thing really matters in every Life and it would be the symbol of the next Life, its banner, such as identities, five keys determined by five different flags.

In the Second Life, we would forget the lessons of the First or we would refuse to remember. We would be full of enthusiasm, unsuspecting - Four Lives still ahead, this numeral does not mean anything more than the Five or Three, we  would deal only with the Two. We would believe be born into this Life, we would think we never met anyone before, we would pretend to live for the first time, forgetting the First Life as if it never happened, as if it had determined nothing, it would be like new.
What we had better into this Life is abundant energy that other Lives would have not yet absorbed, roaring illusions, an intact body, then maybe we would be like a new penny actually, only one or two drunk but the wealthiest, in a world where everything would pump out , joys, fears, wine and many other spirits, friends, anguishes and laughs, sometimes even poorness. We learn to escape, to run away, to race, to be caught up, we learn to learn.
We learn in this Life, and for all those that follow, that the best is accessible.

Each Lifetime would be the resolution of an equation, new way of being in the world, using our senses, identify buildings, renunciations, taunting the devils, cheat or play the game. we would seek this meaning or  to forget that we want find it, we would try opposite directions unless to persist on a single path. we would learn the art of nodes, connections and quality of the links, we would weave a network like spiders make their webs, we would remain in the corner for reverse, deconstruct, dismantle the mechanisms. We choose to think or act, sometimes both, and maybe we would have the right to alternate Lives when we act and Lives as we think. We will spend time imagining outcomes and wait for them, thinking about possible endings, about other Lives, the ones which comes after and those before, those of others who watches us and those we can’t see, we often forget to focus on those present in our hands.

In the Third Life, anger invades the reasonings, we can’t figure out if we must keep moving to the next two Lives or regress to the two past Lives . We hesitate between digest trauma or prepare for the next, have the nostalgia of the past or be delighted by the future discoveries . We would make a first count, how many failures and successes, of efforts wasted, of unexpected gains, of energy spent, how many emotions felt even to tears, giggles, how many buddies. We would count money, humiliations, slaps and vengeance.
We would remember the victories, thresholds, incoming lines, the five drops overflowing vases and require change, the rainbow sky, eclipses, encounters with strange and unknown animals. We would own a collection of scars that shine and dirty and smelly wounds, we would take scratches for mutilations and gashes for mosquito bites, we would blame the all world, we would be happy to live what we don’t know even by proxy. We would like to make up time, or replace, or delete it. We would start running for fear of don't have leave on time.
We learn in this Life, and for all the ones in the future, that the worst is possible.

Before heading out from a Life, we would make a wish which would record Five in all, at the end. With some luck, we would made at least one important encounter in each Life, which would record Five people, at the end. Maybe we would read an important book in each Life, so that at each passing we would be richer of a book because we would have the right to take it with us throughout the Five Lives. Similarly we could accumulate Five images, Five jobs, Five objects which we care about like the apple of our eyes. We would have liked Five different places, cities, houses, and sometimes we could return in these places unless to be exiled. Whatever the opportunities to return we would keep these spaces like Five shelters, Five haven, Five hiding places. Perhaps the important meetings, books, houses and cities are the keys to open complicated doors and cross the impossible paths. Sometimes also we would do only one wish, we would remain faithful to one single match, one single book, only one house, a single job, a single country one single image, throughout the Five Lives. Sometimes also we would meet anyone for real even wishing to remain faithful, we wouldn't have kept any job, neither house, wandering for Five Lives without belonging to any community or any religion, and to replace what is missing we would have done much more than the Five vows allowed. Sometimes also some for Five long Lives could not read or could not see the images that are shown to them and accumulate handicaps, from one to Five, not on purpose.

From the Fourth Life, we would be the only one to decide the happiness and misfortune. We wouldn't let anyone walk all over , taking the necessary decisions, we would  become the leader. We will say The revenge I do not care, breakdown doesn't concern me anymore, we no longer seek to please nor to find. I don’t care would be the favorite phrase of the Fourth Life.
We would no longer think to the tests but on sequences. We would have understood the inevitable bonds,  tie the knot  and the rings. We would live the last chance, we would burn the last cartridges, would risk everything. Like the stars before explosion we would come into bloom the best possible, allowing that only the Fourth Life authorize , with dreams of Lives already lived or completely unreleased, unusual and original. We would come off material goods or would like them even more, we would detach of parasites to keep only the essential, the faith. Some would be able to go until bareness or nonsense, all give or take everything, we would do it sometimes . Some days we would be cynical, criticizing everything and everyone afraid to admit crimes, for the first time in our Four Lives we would be scared thinking about the future. Some days we would be as light as feathers, with the ability to float, to metamorphosis, ridicule would no longer ashamed, tiny things would make laugh, hope would tear our real smiles.
We say I stop running, for better or worse, we would accept.

The Five Lives will be like the fingers of a hand, inseparable but dissociated as Five paths to explore Five tracks, Five solutions, crossed or parallel lines, such essential drawings showing Five patterns, different and complementary graphical techniques, assorted or mismatched colors , contrasting or in the same tone, shades of the same family belonging to the same person. No insurance could ensure the end of the course, to finish it, win or lose, sometimes we even stop before the end. Some would not have time to live Five Lives, for example they would live forever only the First - or any of the other before the Fifth - either that their Life is suddenly interrupted or because they would have remained locked inside, for one reason or another hard to explain and still very complicated to understand. Some of these stranded persons would pretend to have lived Five Lives, for all these complicated reasons which can’t be explained. By dint of act to false they would be persuaded to have the normal course of Five Lives like other people, clear round, straight ahead, as the rights lines.

In the Fifth Life we wouldn’t need checks, we would know the correct account. We would find Five good reasons to go out of the business , or to agree or  Five permanent reasons to worry. We would begin to identify Five ways to do this or that properly, Five smart methods, we would write dictionaries, sometimes we would do other absurd things or not at all clever than most of the time only people of the Fifth Life include , we would think to the Five things you have never done, and to those that one can not do anymore. Then we should find that it's cool to forgive so we will do it all the time, we would forgive a little the ugly things of the others Lives, even imaginary. We would make our mea culpa, we would have clear ourselves. Sometimes we would say important things one last time, sometimes even with an enviable wisdom by people from Lives One to Four, and even those of Life Five. Sometimes it would be nonsense, for fun, to draw attention, for real too.
Maybe we would be able at the end to count backwards to get to zero, much like a countdown at the last moment, to be sure not to miss anything, not even the last Five minutes.
We would might have Five occasions to die or by dint of the Five lives, we would have had time to invent them.
Unless we rediscover the essential explanations which in each Lives catalyze starts, get back to Live, to hope, believe in it, again, until the end.

It is said that cats own nine Lives, perhaps that humans own Five and that mankind will have Five ages. Perhaps we are only in the First, the one of shocks, instability and dependency. Maybe we have whole Life ahead of us or maybe carrots are cooked and it's too late, that humans don’t possess anything especially not Five Lives, Five chances, opportunities to grow, Five pairs of different eyes, maybe mankind has already looked Five times in Five directions and didn’t see anything, without meaning to, it happens, Five times you pass by or in front of and you see nothing.
Five times too many, it doesn’t matter, all you need is the conviction that simply once, a look, a spark, a sharing, an embrace, a love, a life. Change everything.
If I close my eyes and count to Five, maybe Five shooting stars pass under my eyelids. If I count to Five and opens my eyes, even the horizon can’t stop my gaze, the only number I want to see is already selected.

myriam eyann

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Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Risen up for words
Saturday, October 25, 2014 - 21h00 - In my cave, at the mill

What is under the words is very brittle and very strong without this being a contradiction, what  hides ensure not being found even if it does not hide through weakness. There is a veil which you may tear a little in some cases, with great care.

In a sentence there would be a hatch, you would read a word and suddenly you would be elsewhere, in the same sentence and at the same time in another, hidden inside, an audible B-side without changing the track, you would see the engraved furrows on the other side of the disc, you would know read backwards, in addition to being able to read the right way. There would be a different world, where people tell other lives without fear, access would be inaccessible to malevolence.

You should read with excessive slowness, play back again on the phrases several times in succession, listen beneath the words, lift them one by one slowly and redeposit them gently after to be sure to find them if you wanted to see again below - if doesn’t remember very well or because it’s irresistible - without make them flee, without scaring them.

Raise the words to see what is below is not one of my inventions, there are specialists of risen-up-for-words. The words you raise are never yours - the goal of risen-up-for-words being the sharing and discovery of others - so you raise the words specifically to see he or she who is hiding underneath. Any notion of voyeurism, exhibitionism, perversity, manipulation, is displaced here, since by nature I repeat, there is no malice in listeners of  words.

Maybe we raised the words because it is the only way to access to what is absent. To go under the words you have to take time off, you become yourself away. Maybe we raised the words because of the absence. Under the words there would be the presences of the absent, all the absent could meet there and recognize themselves.

If that was true, we could be absent together, evolve under the words, live there.

The absence would be like a homeland. In the absence you are somewhat invisible, but the inhabitants of the absence would cross each other without really meet. After a moment, however, by chance, you would make a true encounter, a real meeting. The presence of chance is pure supposition. In my opinion, there is no more random in the absence that is precisely where it disappears. You are not absent because of  or due to the chance, perhaps even you are missing in spite of yourself, or because random has forgotten you.

I'm not a specialist in the risen-up-for-words, say I'm an expert on the absence would be pretentious, and then I prefer not to be specialized at all, even if it annoys people who love the clearly stated commitments and don’t include step that we can go in all directions, even less you claim this. To go in every sense is my resource, my functioning and my identity, which implies a method of rigorous research and evacuate any versatility, the only way to make sense is to seek for it everywhere, there is no direction that can be prohibit in this case. To find a meaning, a true meaning to what surrounds us, no track can be overlooked. The systematic exploration of the sense would be my specialty, explore them all, one by one, in order to eliminate in as and when, and in the end to find the right.

In the world of specialties, number of individuals get smaller. For example, cyto-anatomical pathologists specialists of the glandular epithelial cells of the buccal mucosa follow the same congresses and meet there year after year, see themselves to share interesting information between the conference and talk about the evolution of cells and their pathologies. Similarly, the specialists of absence, of meaning research and risen-up-for-words, meet themselves before looking to each other. Dint of looking under the words, they raise the words of the encounter.

Sentences under sentences show you are part from the imagination of someone else. You would exist because that person imagine you,  you would have appeared in his words, apart from these, logically, you would disappear. Beneath the words of this unique person, you will understand how to fix what doesn’t work, in the same way that you read a guide, a personal recipe book. You would kept his words close permanently, in case of need, you couldn’t live without these phrases.

We always would have a little fear of being caught, or not be in agreement, don't  understand each other, or don’t finally meet for real. The time to get used to no longer be alone, you would ask youself  full of very complicated and unnecessary questions, like all the absents. Normally the absent person never meet anybody for real, and are accompanied by a multitude of people for false. It would require a transition time, so that the presence tames the absence.

The risen-up-for-words, the absence, the meaning research, are rather dangerous activities, like spying, skydiving, or madness. The regions crossed require personal energy reserves in abundance, adaptive capacity, responsiveness, attributes and guarantees, and even empathy, making  give up any unfit individual.

Perhaps a risen-up-man-for-words can also be risen-up-man-for-lines. Someone who has the ability to see under the lines an anonymous pencil, movement and its intention, the thoughts that went with the gesture at the time of the draw. A real gesture hides nothing, like a real sentence. To join this true gesture, reach or see it, the absence would be required again. Can a gesture may be present and absent?

Afterwards by dint to rise up words and their phrases, lines beneath the drawings, perhaps the risen-up-man-for-words become able to raise anything, speech and sentence in real, true gestures which can be seen, any creation, any transmission, a book, movie, music, painting. Perhaps the risen-up-man-for-words raise everything, issues, curtain corners, skirts, crowds, doubts.

At the end, probably, we wouldn't really know anymore what is important, what was found under the words, lines or music, what is truly expressed, without the need to lift something or another. We will stop rise up all these things as frequently because it would become absurd, we would not believe anymore that what was below was a so important treasure.

One day perhaps we would have a bit fed up of being absent, even without knowing well what can replace this absence. We would be absent from the absence to regain the presences. It would be enough to approach, say hello or anything so as not seem completely stupid. Maybe it would not work because we have been away too long, we're too old, carrots are cooked, it’s too late, the rythm isn’t good, the time inappropriate. But maybe it would work.

In my opinion, a former inhabitant of absence that got away, always keep something incorrigible which remains attached to it, an accent, fads, a way of not listening and listening anyway, capacity to escape, somehow. You accept to leave the absence when you know you will find it wherever it may be, in any condition, any state and shape.

The presence and the absence are like two sides of a mirror. Being an existing missing or a lost presence, forever, it seems like it's the same. Is someone who is present without being there is better than someone who is no longer here but who fills all? When the random is distracted, sometimes, when he no longer pays attention, one can live with both the presence and absence.

I have risen up my words without shame, no risk I down my pants, no risk of malevolence if a risen-up-man-for-words was there.

myriam eyann

Posted at 13:57 - 0 comment

Wednesday, October 22, 2014
The drops of the rainbow
Thursday, September 25, 2014 - 7:55 p.m. - at the mill

The kingfisher is a fairly small and very wild bird that stands out mainly by the color of its wings, a blue so keen that it must shine in the darkness. His appearances are fleeting and unexpected, it passes like lightning, leaving in its wake blue phosphorescences.
Shortly before seeing it for the first time, on the banks of the Loing, I had attended an opening exhibition, the artist painted colorful canvases full of visions, profiles, landscapes, butterflies, boats, birds. She explained to me that seeing a kingfisher is a good omen, and the story that linked to it through his father.
When I saw him, seeing it as a sign, in my usual, was completely normal.
Today it landed on a branch, he warmed himself in the sun, rummaging through his wings. Behind the window I watched its soaring, greedy to blue flashes. But no, he stood there, waiting. I thought Okay, if that's how I'll wait too.
At first I got a little upset, because of all the exciting things in abeyance, in the workshop or elsewhere, there was no time to waste - there is never time to lose. He moved a little, looks like as if to hold me, he will fly from one minute to the next, it's worth it to stay still.
He took advantage of the Loing, at his pace. Let it be, enjoy, while he is under your eyes. I spoke to him, inside of me, telling him a bunch of nonsense, thinking to the fox of St Exupéry in The Little Prince, tame each other, the same place, every day, the same hour, becoming unique, in charge one of the other.
Does he know that I exist and looks at ? Among my assumptions and beautiful stories, the possibility that our meeting is a chance, now and in the future, even if it didn’t really like this idea, I accepted.

He turned in the sun, by dangling his blue, it must charm the fish, like a mermaid from the air, twirling around the water to attract the most beautiful on the surface, those which look like his blue. My breath was short, my eyes wide open, my heart was beating.

Afterwards, stroll through the shops were necessary, want to take care of myself probably. A Picture of Paris reassured me, Eiffel Tower in the background, view of the Pont des Arts, cutting the roofs.
The memory of a floating on this bridge, fifteen years ago, a few minutes sitting next to my companion, without words we watched the Seine, waiting side by side than one of us react. I told him secretly everything which can't be  pronounced, yet thinking with a precision of not retained words, between the dream, prayer, speech, desire.
I would make a novel of our history on the bridge. It's long to write, we got away from each other, I started to draw with attendance, he sometimes comes to visit me, the days of wheat, most often it is oblivion that comes in his place.

The Pont des Arts is in danger of collapsing because of the love put in escrow by lovers crossing it, symbol of Parisian romantic walks, a kind of Bridge of Sighs where it is fashionable to seal his love, or padlock it, which amounts to the same. My talks with the kingfisher fly with him at the antipode of any lock, they don’t attach themselves more to the banks of the Loing benches as to the Pont des Arts, nobody catches them, neither him nor me. The time spent away from him has made him precious.

Waves in my soul, watching love movies is a major pastime for all basic female individual, it’s an essential classic. I know what it looks, but it’s anything else. Nothing better to stimulate the wheels as images, emotions, contagion, imitation, comfort. Bruce Lee said Use only what works, wherever you find it.

I start with Upside Down, a movie of Juan Solanas,  delight for an architect  and for lovers also. Maybe someone can cancel my gravity, or risk reversing his to meet me, maybe live in another world makes lightweight and flammable, but we can share even upside and against the laws of gravity.

I ended up with Wild at Heart, the famous David Lynch film. Set free of defined roles, follow only chosen traces, even take all the risks. Lula's words freely tells the rainbow, Sailor is smiling and hides his poetic soul, wild hearts, none words sully freedom and love.

Desire is shared freely only, no promises can’t alienate it. One moment, a gift, looks behind the window, talking even from a hiding place, in secret, on a bridge, a river, over water or road.

The kingfisher will return to the banks of the Loing,  what he is seeking in there belongs to him, perhaps that the wildest beings are the freest.
Bridges are collapsing when we overload with everything that should not clutter it, padlocks, too heavy thoughts, bounded hopes. By slowing his pace, if we are light enough, we crosses, between the shores, hanging over billows, two banks, two people, one path.

Long ago houses were built on bridges, which concerned only very few people anyway, living on the water is not suitable for everyone. The part of the mill about me - the old engine room - is on stilts, a river flows beneath my feet and defines the exact area of my dwelling. The idea to constantly flow sneaks into my thoughts, night after night, surrounded by water, the habit settles. It's not a bridge, perhaps a docked ship that loads provisions, inevitably impatient, preparing the next departure, waiting for the last passenger. One day I will cast off, probably, to pass under bridges, such as water.

Tuesday, October 14, exhibition La disparition des Lucioles (disappearance of fireflies) to prison St Anne in Avignon. A moment of grace and lightness in the isolated yard, a work by Miroslaw Balka called Heaven, plexiglass tubes rotate with the wind and diffract light. There are blue flashes , yellow, purple, green, my own reflection in the orange glow up and down, my eye gets lost. Sequences stand out on plastic decoys, the filaments are floating around me like a shoal of fish, in the background the inertia of cold and wet stones of the prison which cling to the wall of the rock in this part of the city.
The contrast is so strong between this beauty and context, tiny density bubbles burst in my face, small miniature black holes, howlings in a silence filled with echoes. Drops of rainbow are dancing and have a good time for having captured of me a fuzzy and distorted image. I promise to find a way to capture in my turn, me too, this time.

Despite the clarity of goals to achieve, embody his own desire sometimes seems like the crossing of an opaque cloud, without visibility, you prefer to keep the finish line in a corner of your imagination, it avoids crossing it, I don’t understand very well why.
I wanted to find the time with Kingfisher, the one of the Bridge of Arts, floating moments of desire, love and sharing times. Body roll is mild on the Loing, but even so, all that water.

Desire, love, freedom, between coercion and escape, balance is barely more abble to life than extreme, the frustration of not being just where we want to be, or at the moment that one wishes to, is sometimes unbearable . We blew the last locks, nothing can prevent soaring of the rainbows drops, blue and purple flashes, the reality dilutes itself the time to a  concentration .
You're long gone, but I still talk to you, in my head, the tiny funnel of an objective, words become distorted, diffract itself, boomerangs in an echoe, your words or mine whatever, cross the final cut is beyond imagination.
The drops of the rainbow dance freely in my pockets.

myriam eyann


> Artworks quoted
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Sunday, September 21, 2014
The eleventh question
Saturday, September 13, 2014 - 9:03 p.m. - the mill

1 - Can dreams overcome the reality or does the reality inevitably unmask them?

2 - Should we prove the value of a dream, its effectiveness, its future profitability, its cost, what it will bring for that reality adopts it and embodies it?

3 - What makes the difference, at the instant when we dream, between the one that will come true and another which we finally decide it was not worth it, and that we will get rid?

4- Does some people don’t have the need to achieve their dreams, and for this reason - for this reason alone and not for the defective quality or lower intensity of unrealized dreams - do not seek to materialize them?

5 - Does some dreams of certain persons are more valuable than others?

6 - Is there useless dreams, beasts, wicked or that weaken, that should not been realized or which are worthless and even that annoy because they never become real, and on the contrary dreams that make go further, motivate, restore confidence, dreams to drop and dreams to keep?

7 - Does the dreams that come true, if dreams come true, be good dreams and those who don’t realize would be the bad?

8 - From the moment when a dream is a good dream can you have confidence that you will see it born one day, as if it was predestined that this dream see the light because it is right?

9 - When  we include a person in our own dream and the dream depends on his presence, can he be replaced if he disappears by another person who would play the same role?

10 - Does a dream have to be honest or can it lie or cheat, does it tells stories?

12 - Does dreams refuse to evolve if you don’t realize them?

13 - Are there normal dreams and sick dreams that need to be heal, dreams that don’t function well, or not at all nevertheless without being nightmares, handicapped dreams, wobbly, pathological dreams ?

14 - Is there people who want their nightmares come true?

15 – Does dreamers have more chance to see their dream come true because they often dream or are they so few pragmatic that they can rarely see the result?

16 - Is there smalls dreams and big ones, trifling and thrilling, some that deserve success, sharing, being disclosed, others that needs shade and hiding places, some tiny and giants, imposing pachyderms and delicate laces?

17 - Does some people never dream, have never dreamed, no longer dream, dream badly or even trying with a lot of good will do not succeed?

18 - Can we dwell the dream of someone else, or dream instead of someone and make enter him into our own self dream, if he agrees, or invite ourselves in a dream that is not yours if you are tired of dreaming or if like to question 13, you have a weird dream that needs support?

19 - Is a dream harmless and kind, or can it be manipulative, hurt while one believe it reassuring, can a dream be immoral?

20 - Is there dirty dreams, ugly, shaggy, unshaven, poorly dressed, misplaced, is it the way how you uses them that dirties ?

21 - Where is the eleventh question?

22 – Does speak of a dream exhausts its energy, so it will be more difficult to achieve, does a great dream
should remain secret?

23 - Does some dreams be solitary, as there would be collective dreams?

24 - Is the love of dreams  the same as the one which appears in real life, can we share a dream of love and make it concrete, meet the person of his dream of love is it only a legend for children?

25 - What is the purpose of dreams if they don’t realize?

26 - Are there dreams wildest than the others, dreams more able to  lives, dreams to give up, reasonable dreams, achievable dreams and impossible dreams?

27 – Are dreams programmed as there are lives plotted in advance, dreams from which one can’t escape, which would be like a gives bad, dreams that would have lost their free will, against whom we have no room for maneuver, which would not be responsible for what they dream, alienated dreams?

28 - Are dreams done to escape?

29 - Why dream and reality are most of the time in contradiction, and that to bear the reality you need to take refuge in dreams and to realize your dreams fight against reality?

30 - Does the fairies grant sweet dreams of children, and if they don’t, does witches in their place predict the bads?

31 - Is there  winners dreams and losers , those which win victories and those who fail, dreams crossing the finish line, and those which don’t have enough muscles?

32 - Are some dreams better trained for reality, are there helped dreams, sponsored, funded and dreams that can't afford, poor dreams and rich dreams?

33 - Does dreams grow older with children?

34 - Does dreams comply with social classification, bourgeois dreams, workers, chiefs dreams, noble dreams , garbage collectors dreams, prisoners, teachers, business, technicians, farmers, caregivers, researchers, or are dreams unclassifiable and don’t belong to any category?

35 - Is a dream come true destroyed, recycled in another dream or does it disappear once it no longer serves, does a dream wich come true still worthwhile?

36 - Does dreams blend such as mixed children, of all colors, religions or countries?

37 - Is there smart dreams and silly dreams, deficient dreams which they are lacking something in their mind and highly gifted dreams?

38 – Does the perfect dream exist, is it the perfect dreams that be realized?

39 - Can a dream generates other dreams?

40 - Is there dreams who take risks and snug dreams refugees within the comfort, revolutionary dreams who go to the battles and conformist dreams who want that nothing changes?

41 - What is risky for dreams, be locked up, shackled, alienated, losing his freedom, being invaded, censored, politicized, recovered, become demagogy, be destroyed or achieved?

42 - Must we master our dream, or should we become slave of it?

43 - Is there a waiting line of dreams, a favorable achieving order, vital priorities, forgot rights, emergencies, others which open doors so you have to dream them first?

44 - What prevents a dream to be carried out if it is technically possible to achieve it?

45 - Does a lot of frothy dreams are better than few dreams of great density, or many dense dreams than few scanty dreams?

46 - Does the place that a dream takes into the brain prevents all abilities to reality to unfold without hindrance?

47 - Is there brave dreams and dreams that are afraid, very very very shy dreams that would happen anyway, megalomaniac dreams that plotz, collapsed dreams and others who recovered after each plunge?

48 - Does some dreams end up giving up for never been realized, is there dreams more tenacious, ambitious, stubborn dreams and dreams that do things by halves, dreams who are waiting behind the windows and others who go to adventure and say whatever, no matter what happens?

49 - Is there disappointed dreams which annoy others, embittered old dreams that prevent going around in circles or make room for the young dreams?

50 - Is there crowned dreams, dreams which carry an aureole, sacred dreams that remain idols and dreams down to earth who desire to wrestle with the reality and accept their future triviality of realized dreams ?

51 - Do we dream the same dreams in a bedroom or living room, in a bed or on a chair, a house or an apartment, a barge or a ship, Venezuela and Germany, in a garden or a cave, a prison or a castle, at home or traveling, when we sleep or when we woke up, next to a loved one or far away from him?

52 - Is there empty dreams, absurd dreams, dreams that would not make sense but that might happen anyway?

53 - Is there  dreams too dense, too heavy as a saturated computer file or an overly complex program that would continually bugs?

54 - Is there awakened dreams and dreams that remain asleep, such as sleeping Beauty dreams forgotten because the prince would never have come to wake her?

55 - What is the difference between dream and prayer, are dreams  the rough drafts of the prayers, do we start dreaming after prayers while waiting for them are realized?

56 - Does some dreams scream louder than others, have charisma and impose themselves even if they are a little rough and coarse, love to talk about themselves and tell the whole truth, or such as the spiders webs, brittle and strong as whispers, they don’t need to be yelled for us to hear them, prefer a small audience and like the mysteries?

57 - Does a dream must follow the rules of art to materialize itself, is it a specific course where we should enter the gates in a certain order and respect a set of scrupulous loads, is there important rituals to honor, magic gestures, or should we forget everything we know to reach it, cross the boundaries, break down barriers, let ourselves be guided, trusting while forcing passages without knowing what they hiding?

58 - Do we may reach our dream without meaning to, as a free gift, or should we bring ourselves to a life of toil, faith and sweat until you have rights to it?

59 - Is the dream carrot for the donkeys?

60 - Is there false dreams, fakers dreams in dreams suit, which are actually disguises, cardboards dreams and true dreams, those who will never betray, which does not sham dreaming?
61 - Does a dream deserves what happens to him?

myriam eyann

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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.

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Friday, August 29, 2014
The magnet of my walks
Sunday, August 17, 2014 - about 16:30, on the banks of the Canal du Loing

I wanted to find a place where there would be nobody, and then I don’t want to be alone. I wanted to disappear and exist. Watch the world without the need to be part of it.

There were these little beasts that walk on water and two small dragonflies flying together. The family of swans that sometimes rode around the mill has arrived. And they stayed around a little. A little jealous bird passed almost under my nose, between me and swans - that were already close - so fast that truly see him was impossible

I thought If the birds invite themselves, it's probably just a matter of time. On the opposite riverbank people was passing. On mine no risk, I went a little further than the path, where it is not supposed to exist in fact.
Swan necks were ascending and descending, they always came back in a half-heart position.
If I stay long enough, at some point, inevitably, if the angle is right, the two necks will cross in the air and there will be an illusion of a perfect heart, even wink one's eyes.
I brought two flat peaches, in case. It was nevertheless a little hard of sounding expect nothing.


There is a very long time, my escapades were urban, nature was passing behind the windows of cars, trains, buses sometimes, or else in television, during rare periods when there was a home. The city was all I loved, nature I didn't care, it never misses me.

And then it happened, as always it seems when you love something too strong or too close, maybe the gaze on it decrease lucidity, too much confidence take away mistrust'zest required to keep a healthy distance, you end up with a proprietary outlook while we don't own anything, by dint things get damaged or disappear.

Me and the countryside! It just made me laugh, and gape rather quickly.

The noise, the crowd, be at the heart of what we believe to belong, as if the people around you could define the frame of what you are. For some time it is true, the feeling of being watched all the time, all those eyes which were able to see me, I preferred imagine it was true instead of checking nobody was watching, it should have  had experience a lot of eyes .

Most of the time what we doesn't want to do is what impose oneself, what we want to avoid at all costs is what we end up causing, or that's because the crosscurrent is the default program in some people. Town dwelling I was,  but all wasn't for the best in the best of worlds, on the contrary. The idea that the city wouldn't be a world to fit me, fifteen years after I left, remains unacceptable, even if it must be good sometimes to face the facts, in my case, it seems , that doesn't work.

When you get to the countryside without having chosen it, you decide sulkily and stubbornly to not put a foot in there. Because that's how I will no longer talk to anyone, I would stay in my room like an Emily Dickinson, you close your eyes, ears, nostrils, however you try. But a living being, whatever the life that dwells in him, can't live without sharing, this is a deeply rooted conviction in my mind, such as faith.

Life is an interaction. As lonely as it is, any being eventually come into connection with what surrounds it, even without meaning to, you get closer from another life, any of, magnetized as long as you have the will to live. Looking at the matter, sometimes it's what I think, it seems that the goal is to amalgamate, why dust cluster in heaps under the beds? Even in a desert of stones we would end up given a life to which seems inert, to love it, perhaps.

Alone into the wild, that's what I see, the irresistible need of life, being in the middle of what surrounds it, be part of it, take place. Who is there today? Around me, sun, wind, rain or darkness, the leaves rubs against each other, the wood creaks, ants, flying insects, the spiders wait without moving in the middle of their cobweb, I'm sure they are listening to the wind , a big fish is jumping out of the water, what is that drives him to go and see how it is out there, yonder, elsewhere, the other side, in the same way as any animal, occasionally, in the opposite direction, like diving into the water.

The feeling of being watched is there, again, it comes back. Where are the eyes here, I turn, turn around to check. Concentrate myself on the presences around me is as distracting as seeing my century that goes to terrace of a cafe[1].

The path of Paul Arène, I do it upside down. My first contemplations were deployed in the city, the most beautiful, loafer trainings in Paris at the beginning of teenage years, at the age of twelve, the goal is to get lost, not knowing where I am, and then find the way.
The funniest is when the mind map is in the process of structuring, you fit together two parts as the pieces of a puzzle, you believed they were distant, the territory is growing and shrinking at the same time. A city map was drawn in my mind before any track, trace, line or labyrinth born since then, my son says Paris is a large playground.

One can explore the city before the campaign or countryside before town, we are not forced to choose, we have the right to belong to different worlds as Métis children who mix colors in themselves. There is no union or color juxtaposition that is unlikely.

Defenders of nature, asphalt lovers seem to be opposite whose main feature is to be defined in relation to the other. For a dreamer, the worlds are all too small, immense and infinite. The opposites are probably a practice you take to believe in the waterproofing of universes. There are bees, butterflies, gulls, sunflowers and poppies in Paris, soda bottles floating on the Loing[2], fatty paper, plastics and metal scraps, rust along the ponds of lost campaign.

For 14 years I have lost the habit of my urban walks, it's in the  nature that my strolls continue. I would keep the nostalgia of Paris in the provinces, in Provence or in any of my migration. I will remain faithful to it as my birthland. I would write my disability to live fully there. I will draw the sides of buildings, roofs that stand out against the horizon, the volumes, windows and lights, shadows and density.

Monday morning, after three days of bucolic weekend return into the stream, it would be more fun to daydream on the urban shore - to appreciate where one stands, only contemplation appears effective, in my opinion.

Aggressive drivers, flashing headlights or klaxons for the one who is slow to get the right reaction, fishtail, accelerations, a strange calm protect my stepping aside, play who can piss the farthest doesn't entertain me every day, the right response is never the right one. I extend my escapades in telling them. But don't you have anny fear, all alone? asks me a female patient

For some time now, in my city living, abysses open up such whirlwinds, miniature twisters which would have almost power to snap up me if I was passing next without paying attention. The banks of the Loing today are my against-power, inverse aspiration, I refuse to be afraid of my neighbor, or any living being. In the car a music rock, a song is humming in my head: And I swear That I don’t have a gun[3]. Codes at the entrance, intercoms, locks, my defenses enclose only myself.

This morning a man badly shaved admonish me because I didn't park myself in the exact space delimited by white stripes of parking, a patient grumpy for my delay wonder if the late awakening was good this morning, a young father family requires me to throw my plastic bottle in the right trash can. Did I forced someone to get out of its own bounds?

Thoughts to dragonflies of the Loing, to poppies of the Basses Alpes, the sun is rising behind the mountain, on the Valensole the lavender should be cut now, I still have to make discoveries on the edge of the channels, not to mention the caves, forests, abandoned houses, industrial wasteland and demolition sites.

I am afraid that the shores move away, that the passageways are shutting, that my eyesight decrease, or when anger seizes me. Cross a magnet on the waterside is my hope, I'm just starting to explore space, the banks of rivers, watching the eyes which surround me, getting lost it is still the first time. The next, I will take couple of good cakes.

Take your time, Hurry up
Come as you are, as you were, as I want you to be
And I swear that I don’t have a gun
No I don’t have a gun

 myriam eyann

[1] Paul Arène , french author, see links
[2] The Loing is a river on which I truly live, as water goes under my home (I live in an old mill)
Also Loing is in french phonetically identical to the word far , loin
[3] Nirvana  song Come as you are


> Nirvana, Come as you are
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Wednesday, August 13, 2014
That must be it
Monday, July 21, 2014 - 5:03 p.m. - the mill

This text is a little strange, it surprised me too. By dint of reading it I tame in me what comes of it. It is in probably the reason for its existence, and the one inevitably irresistible to give it to read.

For several months a kitten is wrapped around my throat. It happens regularly to me. Generally without boasting me, I recognize symptoms. Abdominal pain, nausea, back pain, pain in the shoulder, in the knees, headache, we all have a stubborn symptom. Mine is in the throat, there must be something especially snug for small cats in there, I love cats and all living beings of creation. Maybe it is a family sensitivity, with us sometimes voice extinctions happens, nodoses on the vocal cords, perhaps thyroid disorders without knowing it.

Sparingly words, soft-spoken and quiet, especially not too high words, in spite of this regime the impression that you have when you come to scream, yelling at someone, or make a day of manif to speak loudly remains you across the throat. The sensation of a trace in the body, it also happens when you puked after a too long flu, on waking or leaving a burning shower, sometimes when we cried too much.

When did I screamed? Perhaps without realizing it as The Howling Miller of Paasilinna[1], since I lives at the mill maybe in my sleep screams leave of my throat. Maybe I scream in my head and my vocal cords are not fooled. Maybe a big shout is prisoner there and tried to get out by rasping the interior surface to escape.
The best is to pause, say nothing more, vocal cords at rest, nothing better to clear his throat, SHUT UP ! It says loud, it's exhausting! Words of throat are inevitable. Over time you learn to calm down, not to be overwhelmed by anger, swearwords at most, or a blue wrath, as a way to evacuate vulgarity.

Close or kill the loop, I ask nothing better. The circle is complete, You looped the loop, this expression contains a liquidation which I don’t want to be responsible. My mazes include a single line which ends up to close, possibly in this case, and only in this case, this expression I hate so much can be applied if and only if there is a master in the maze.

One will not make me upside down, failing to build for others, my plans are mine. This is a minimum. Five years of study - a little more with the year of graduation - paid in cash, I don’t do everything on credit.

After a few days of nurse touring the kitten falls asleep. This morning I understood why. I was with a patient afflicted with multiple sclerosis whose mobility is reduced, it needs our daily passages. Cared body, it oscillates between the need to distance himself from this nursing time, pretend it didn’t concern him, and still want to enjoy the only physical contact of the day. These two extremes comes back, side by side at the same times every day for 30 years, the nurse, the caregiver body, source of pleasure and misery.

Pain and enjoyment, good and evil, love and hate, those feelings would be more effective separated. But no, beauty and ugliness, joy and sorrow, peace and war in ourselves, at the same time, on the inside, the same minute, we hate ourselves and we love that, we cry and we laugh, one suffer and enjoy.

We are on one side or on the other, and on both at once, perhaps we can’t go out from mazes alone, the nakedness, filters, real and reality, we can accept everything as long as love is there. Even fetch what is the more hideous, the unclean hidden thing[2] in itself.

Asked by Thierry Delcourt, Mauro Corda[3] tells suffering accompanying the creation of the Butcher, a series of seven sculptures suspended tortured bodies, carried out in 1998: In this moment of realization I pictured how we do this to human beings. What is the hardest not to hurt yourself, but to do harm to others.

Victim and torturer's fantasies , fascination, the only limit the creative work is its danger, desired thunderstorms glow[4], looking for the source, cruelty, naked again, repetition, does the real may appear twice in the same place?

None a priori or moral prejudice, no repugnance or decency could not preside over beauty. The human fascinates me, it is everywhere, in the form God or Nature has given him, the gestation as the agony. How to express it ? [5]

When I make a very dense drawing it is not to fill the void or hide it, saturate the sheet, remove nothingness. On the contrary, when the density go out of my fingers is to empty the density and access the unreachable void. At the end of density the last stage is an immersion, so that no possibility of expression is no longer within range. Passed the critical threshold, catatonia invades everything surrounding me, a black hole absorbs matter. Look the same thing for hours, not to contemplate or understand, but to limit informations, contain the overflow, flooding, wait until the water level drops, sneaks into the groundwater, continue its water cycle. My only share of true nothingness if it exists is in this precise point where creation is impossible.

When one has in itself this part of nothingness, one seek relentlessly to find it, and at the same time to discover the outcome to escape alive, not necessarily at the time when we stayed there anyway, instead in the moments where we are not in, forecasts probably, all risk insurance for the trip perhaps.

At the mill the place of my paralysis has found a space, maybe it was by chance, maybe it was time, perhaps these spots exist anywhere and that we meet if we are ready to.

I do not spend all my time in the mezzanine, knowing that it is there is enough sometimes.

*The mezzanine has become my peaceful haven, the cave of the mill, my paradise in paradise. In Marrakech during the visit of a Riad, the guide talks about the two paradises that exist on earth, a Riad being the second. I ask without thinking What's the first? The guide, a mature man close to retirement looks at me with a frown, that look one has for children when they say something stupid. He puts his finger on his mouth and eyed me scornfully Hush! He designates the inner courtyard accompanying his whisper of a gesture inviting me to contemplate what I see.

Something focuses and all at once emptied at that specific location of the mill as if it was the perfect place for the little ajar door, the passage area, the input, Yes ! That must be it. Remain forever on this perch like a bird that no longer take off, the only thing left to do is not moving, test the paralysis at last, on the threshold, neither inside nor outside.

The party lost in the maze, welcome home my own prison, make of it the sanctuary of my shelter, my prayer room, my transmission center, my Eiffel Tower, monument originally useless for anything other than the contemplation and celebration, and which ultimately becomes antenna protecting it from destruction. The coating is crumbly, slightly dirty, small and confined space does not leave room only for a narrow mattress, I draw graffiti without preparation, awkward writing, a little crooked, askew and essential, a cell. The sentences on those walls will be my windows, my links, my shares, my connections. If I have to live without meeting those who pronounced them I'll have at least a trace. No one will never snatch this place from me, it will remain engraved in my brain, indelible such as a resurrection.*[6]

The master of the labyrinth is the one who knows it  the better, not necessarily the one who draws it. The labyrinth's master wishes to remain there while still having the freedom to extract when he wants, he is the only one who can enter and the only one who can get out. It does not belong to him and he has not built, but the maze is his playground, the castle of pleasure, the palace of the first heaven. It's like a house which he would have paid the price and yet architect would retain property rights. An architect who would protect the space he created, so that a person unable of enjoying it would be expelled.

My vocal cords are strangling, there are words that one refuses to swallow. Throat pain or traces of body, yet everything is not spoken.

I repeat some sentences in a loop, by dint to overly listen to them the meaning turns away, the  wind reverse syllables it seems. We give the keys as to believe that will be freed from it,  as to hope that this is the best way to protect the tortured chamber.

The one who will have the complete bunch of keys in hands, will be the one to discover the small room without light, sentences on the walls, delights and grillings, multiply the codes, confuse the issues, riddles, stratagems, repel, put the distance, the risk if you take flight is that no one pursues you. The day he will open the door maybe he will flee running, will look for brother and sister to the rescue, perhaps it's better eventually. You turn back whispering Don't leave me alone, you believed to have muttered it, but maybe you have forgotten.

myriam eyann

[1]  The howling Miller, novel by Aarto Paasilinna, 1991, story of a miller who could not stop yelling at regular intervals and has to arrange his existence according to these screams.
[2] Free translation quoting Thierry Delcourt, french author, who has rite the essay  Créer pour vivre, vivre pour créer – éditions l’âge de l’homme, 2013, p 43, initial expression  la chose immonde cachée en soi
[3] Mauro Corda is an artist, quoting in Thierry Delcourt’s book, p44
[4] Title of a book by Michel Onfray (La lueur des orages désirés), free translation
[5] Mauro Corda, introducing text on his website
[6] Passage between * I extract of the narrative What does that tell

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Monday, August 4, 2014
Monday, June 23, 2014 - 1:39 p.m. - the mill

The signing of official documents, identity card and passport, seeks a long time and then it looks like it find you, all at once we know, no doubt. this is it. Through the changes it becomes a little crazy, despite good concentration, it happens to lose it, and be surprised at! Expected to remain unchanged, belonging to the author so well that it should not be reproducible. No true legal existence before having invented, it almost does not care.
I have no problem with such signature, sort of personality over thousands of documents widespread  no doubt, one can not imagine the number of times it was replicate. In recent years it escapes me, deforms, disappears.

My work is a search for the good gesture to get  the right line. A move can be reproduced with high precision, to work on it, make it perfect, as do the calligraphers who are dancers of the line. I lived with a calligrapher, companion of a distant time, he said Pay attention about how you write every day, do not let your writing degrade and become ugly, you can work it all the time, focus , whenever you write, taking time, this line must remain beautiful.
He was drawing under my eyes slowly, turned back with a mischievous smile to see if I was looking properly, and resumed with application and concentration. The right line is the one we like to watch, whether a reproduction of itself or a different invention day after day.

I'm not good for reproduction. Repeating chasing me and yet escapes me. What we would like to reproduce eventually turns, what we want to turn reproduces. Losing gestures as they appear is interesting to be able to reinvent them maybe or for more obscure reasons, fear to take shape for example, be recognized in the wrong way, determined, stamped, or simply because it's still more playfull to never stay in the same place, not to surprise around you and seek originality, but from boredom to the contrary, the immobility. Unless this fear of the form is being a perpetual breakaway, the perfect escape, the one where you lose the fugitive by dint to follow.
Do not take shape in itself is a form, strategy, desire or unconscious emanation, rebellion or the clam of identity , at worst irresponsibility, indecision, shyness, inferiority complex, excessive humility or megalomania, in my non- form I know by myself what does concern me and what does not. As long as no one take out octopus of the a water , she is the queen of his element.

The person who recognized my drawings has seen them before me, his comments illuminate what I dare not look. Regularly I need his appreciation and visits him full drawing cardboard under arm, pocketbooks, bundles, latest productions. One day, he pointed the signature as primardial element, he said You have to sign them now!
It lacked a last touch, to sign was to complete  the drawing, legitimizing this, undoubtedly prove that I also recognized it. But how? Sign my drawings seemed absurd, my lines are signatures.

A semantic cooking pot swallows me up, complex alchemy that has condensed the sense, symbols and everything that bears that trace. I make unlikely mixtures, my name is my first name - I have trouble to grasp what first name  means . Patronymic, family name, maiden name, name of wife, we spends our time to change it, how to trust?

Does signing Myriam is feasible? He asked this simple question, Yes, yes of course, on the contrary, I want to sign Myriam, that's my name! 
We adopt our own name (first name, ed!) and it's him who tames you and determine us, impregnated with anything carried, its history, famous people it evokes, the acts they are committed are prisoners of the letters, alive, their presence is indelible.
A name can not float, self-determine, contain no symbol, even invented, it bears traces. Maybe one owes existence to that name, as if it had the power to give birth to us to the world a second time.

Myriam alone means nothing, it is not enough. Myriam and who? This question turns in my head. The response is an echo: Myriam and Yann , come to eat! (old memory of Provencal holidays!). In fact in french Myriam et Yann wich is phonetically similar to Myriam Eyann
Myriam Eyann I found it! That surname constructs meaning and owns the semantic extensions inexhaustibly soothing, it is done for me. We are at the beginning of 2007, I began to sign my drawings by writing legibly this new name, in a loop.

Sign is like a deal, contracts, acknowledgments of debt, checks promising amounts and dues. Why do we need sign a production? I have no desire to hide myself or to be anonymous, I'm not ashamed of what I am, but claim it as a banner, a trademark, that's another matter. To recognize oneself requires an identity. Identity imposes a signature. We can not be ashamed of. Unless you write a letter of denunciation. So I started to dream about something else.

Banksy recently exhibited an unnamed exhibition in the street of New York, his unsigned works were sold at ridiculous prices compared to its coast. Do you buy a skill, the quality of the raw material, finishes, or is it the claw in the jacket, the signature, the guarantee that what is into the hands is from Picabia, Pollock, or Giacommeti?
What would happen if an artist refused to sign his paintings, a bit like Banksy, all his paintings, really, who would claim the fact of not signing as a signature? Does his coast would drop to the point of jeopardizing his job, his creation, his work? Does it lose its notoriety to the point of not being able to sell? What are we buying? The right to live with an artwork of Pollock, his work, an annuity, a rent for life?

A world where we could draw and offer those drawings without the question of their value, the price would be the one that allows their implementation, production cost, time spent, work, sweat, the hours of head in the clouds thinking would be part of too, the price would include the operating charges, food, shelter, clothes to wear decently, raising children, and even a little superfluous, some sessions with the hairdresser, a maximum of culture or sport for those who prefer. We would not need to sign.

Throw our  self drawings in the street, not for destruction but for someone to find them. Not to forget them, but to invent them a new life. I shall leave cardboard on a bench, or a pocket book, a kind of album that tell an unlikely story with lots of drawings. Someone will find  them and will look at them for a long time, so long time that he would eventually understand something about, maybe he completely understand it. He would hang it on a wall at home, I would not  even have to put a price on, negotiate anything, or desperately hope he likes what he sees, and he does not even have to approach me to offer a trade in exchange for keeping the book. It would be like a bottle in the sea, those the castaways throw into the water with a small piece of paper in it that says I am here.

Transmitting his thought in space and time is probably the goal of any creation. Sometimes reading the long dead authors, or when you have the feeling that they are just next door, it becomes like telepathy it seems. A bottle that was thrown in the air and is not dropped, into the void if it is floating can not break, there is necessarily a time when a hand grabbed it.
If what I draw stayed in a vacuum, maybe I could continue to imagine anything, as long as nothing ever happens. Dreaming does not avoid to assume what is done and said, we dream as much to escape than building the word in the bottle. No matter if it is signed, the important thing is when anyone finds the island.

I do not sign my drawings to mean that I exist. I know that I exist.
But do not sign would like to send an empty bottle. Leave my drawings on a bench not allow anyone to find me. It is also important to say who we are than specify the location where we stand.
To say I am here do not mean I exist. I know that I exist.
I don't know much but I know that.


myriam eyann


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Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Burn Out

Monday, July 14, 2014 - 4:35 p.m. - in the mill

Despite my attachment to stuff, my claimed materialism, a double life would have allowed me to become a primatologist, or behavior specialist, or anthropologist, ethnologist perhaps. Life in all its forms is fascinating, ultimately it is what I am passionate about, in the matter I look for it.
My readings regularly orient towards these subjects, Social Sciences and Humanities in the broadest sense, I dig with delight and bulimia most often in these matters too. My training as a nurse completed my knowledge, directing them to the Care and research on what makes the characteristics of humankind. Recently reading an essay by Frans de Waal, The Age of Empathy, my questions about how we solve the confrontation with suffering, find partially answer.
Ambient aggressiveness of our societies raises me questioning. My job as a nurse brings me to move permanently in the urban stream, I am exposed to human interactions, I see them or myself am an actress. Several times a day, the penetration in the privacy of patients in their homes, in their shelters, is unavoidable to perform my care. We see twenty patients a day, some of them are care for several years, others occasionally, we have on average two or three non-regular and new patients per week whose duration of treatment varies from a single visit to a daily passage during one, two, sometimes six months. The universe in which I enter are different such as identities, the antithesis of each other more often.
Why is  the aggressiveness  a so frequent response to suffering? By dint of observations, one recognizes several ways to manage great pains, moral or physical (usually they are accompanied). Besides this aggressiveness manner of dilution wich has the disadvantage of hitting around itself to diverse and varying degrees , selfdestruction is at least as common.
Destroying only oneself in appearance , it certainly limits agressiveness discharges , but what weighs on others because of this progressive destruction of the person is frightening because the ultimate answer to that paroxysmal pain is a suicide, with small fire or large.
Other ways, anesthésia drug or symbolic , ensure to dry the source, analgesics containing more or lower doses, powerfull sedatives, to refuse any sensorial solicitation, close the curtains, curl up under the duvet, falling asleep or get in catatonia, swallow a dose of lethargy, narcotics regressions, multi television daily screenings extended, whatever the way to escape from this exact opposite direction of which is extreme pain ... Some paths require original motivation, the most often unconscious, necessarily: sublimation, creative bend, visual contemplation, hearing or intellectual, frenzy work, learn, fill, escape, again. It's not in every case about constructions but leaks, sidelining,  distancing. Why do we borrow a solution or another, is this about ease, resources, choices, control, lucidity?
Frans de Waal demonstrates that animal survival (and human) depends on cooperation and that evolution has endowed us with emotions to strengthen it. Attachment he said, has for us incredible survival value and is constructed first by a synchronization of body, mimetic contagion that allows the transmission of mood, expresses and reinforces the links, allows the identification and self-awareness and weld the communities. See suffer someone close or with whom we cooperate hurts. A sense of compassion (a soldier hugged another in her arms), the emotions of others awaken our own emotions and induces answer.
It is to believe that nature has provided our organization with a simple behavioral rule "If you feel the suffering of others, go to it and establishes the contact."  Do good, help and relieve others, comfort him, give solace, produces pleasure. Trust allows to expose ourselves to danger in assuming that others will not profit of it, it is certainly a wonderful feeling.
Mimicry, contagion, dedication, compassion, empathy, reassurance, trust, mutual support, collaboration. His nuanced demonstration, illustrated by examples galvanized me.


During my reading, I was thinking of a painting by William Bouguereau The First Kiss. It shows two angels embraced and the kiss of the little boy to the girl child. Find this reproduction in my pictures collection was quick. I am particularly sensitive to these representations of tenderness and sweetness (earlier, they also occur in Boucher, and Louise Vigee-Lebrun). In my memory the girl showed a melancholic emotion, a mixture of sadness and anger, sulkiness, a kind of impasse turned on itself and the cherub despite this repulsive emotion seemed to have no other purpose than exit the little girl out of this state, pull her towards something else, another depth, the only answer being a feeling at least as strong as the displayed on  the kid and even that would go further than the distress since it would dare to go the look in his abyss.

I know we can not save everyone. In my job, it is important to be aware of, you can not recover your next too deep at risk of falling into precipices, Primo Levi spoke of those who had given up in Survival In Auschwitz, in the camps it would be better, to survive, to depart from them. Compassion and empathy have limits that it is dangerous to test, it happens sometimes.

Last summer, two food patrol to homeless people in the streets of Paris reminds me that empathy should remain a force, if it weakens becomes ineffective. It was a voluntary activity which the need is still unclear to me to this day . I don't have excessive naivety about the motivations that lead me to help my fellow man. My belief is that you cure yourself by curing another or believing to.
During two patrols, meet these people, mostly men, confronted me, for some, to their renunciation. A darkened part of myself, a very remote area emerges at this point for a whole lot of reasons, a unavowable part like this insecurity, this detachment, that distance. I thought of Primo Levi, what happens in your mind is the opposite of what these people need, it's not they who must attract you, but it is you who has to help them out of their condition. I did not insist, against my will, you can't be effective on all grounds.
The desire to give up has got a phenomenal power, almost pleasant aspiration, irresistible one would think, self-destructive response, not the right. I use the above mentioned methods, sublimation, contemplation, diverse and varied studies and of course work, nurse touring, 24 to 24  I know how to do that. I have kept from my youth this sentence from Montesquieu to my mind: The study was for me the sovereign remedy against dislikes of life, never having a grief that one hour of reading has removed to me. It almost always works, with the necessary concentration.
Delicate moments, homeless, end of life patients, evolving chronic and disabling diseases, compassion and empathy to the maximum, too far, where we are not supposed to go, caught up, recoilless, no more distance, we said we will accompany them to the end. Why? This is what asks around me my family, my son. Because sometimes you can not retreat, when someone gives you confidence, you do not have  the right to betray, and we are professionals. Frans de Waal explains that the effects of trust are what eventually build a society, a community, a sense of it. One does not betray the hopes of someone, a patient, a wife, their children. They asked us to be there, we went.

The limit reached, there is a balance point where several passages unlock themselves, the good and the worst, falling or victory, let it go or mobilize the last sources of energy that allow mastery, curiosity is probably the most decisive, one way or the other, we must choose a direction.
What I learned in the book and found in the reproduction of Bouguereau is the meaning of this compassion. Love is certainly not free as it seeks to bring back the same feeling in a probable goal of survival, and indeed causes it - the girl's cheeks turn pink and show his excitement, I forgot this aspect before seeing the picture. Find faith in this love is not a difficult path, nor renunciation. Understanding the reasons for its actions does not diminish the intensity of the emotion felt.
The kiss of the angel is probably not disinterested, what is important is the goal attained, looking at this painting sweetness fills me, I experience what Frans de Waal is spoken about, a contagion. See what is expressed gives me trust and faith in the human soul, in me. I found the ultimate answer to suffering, the best, the only one worthwhile, this response motivates my work, even my existence. I probably will not go back to a homeless patrol, though I really in a great desire, I can not possibly stay nurse all the time, although sometimes I feel like it too. The important thing is probably to increase choices and issues, renunciations, dilutions, sharing, compassions, contagions, tracks that I have not found I will invent them. And wanting to believe based on what everyone knows on the other, that all will end well.

myriam eyann


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Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Cross the line

Saturday, June 14, 2014 - 03:10 p.m. - Maisons Alfort
Before starting drawing in 2006, we went to visit the Art Brut Museum in Lausanne with two friends. I was at the end of my first year at the school nurse of Digne in  Provence, in a period as we sometimes passes through that encourages crossing the line .
During the class of psychiatric diseases, we had talked about art therapy, a nurse had brought us some achievements of the workshop of the hospital and several books about Outsiders . Quickly these unequal productions fascinated me. Returning from that trip to Switzerland, I took a large sheet and said no matter what happens on this paper, it is not important.

I started with a text, a line had to dance. So I recopied these words and their meaning became secondary, curves progressed under my fingers. At one point, the text has not been enough, my pencil extended interlacing, only the gesture mattered, what it creat was an anecdote, nothing in fact, funny shapes, curves, small fluid inflections, floppy.
Forget what was being done, the meaning, purpose, look at the line, it was soothing. The finished design was what I call a hideous ugliness, totally incoherent mess but this time had been magical, seeking nothing, no purpose barely to finish it, useless, it didn't mean anything, it was particularly unsightly and I wisched to start again, again, again, again.
I continued constantly, when a sheet was over another, without respite whenever possible, most often.

After some drawings, an irresistible organization has taken place, gestures came more easily. I always said, no matter, no matter. There was this possibility of filling, coloring between the lines, make flat tints without overflow, without the brushstroke of felt shows. The line defines openings, brick color, scribbles. The finished drawing, pinned to the wall to watch it again, allowed for dive back into the magical feeling and extend it. They were not ugly, twisted, wacky indeed, something to work on, the next time I try to group colors, what if I made a monochrome ?
I realized by looking at them of the strength of this line, it did not disappear with the flat tints, continued to exist self-governing. Different graphics come back, there is those filled loops I call the Random,  the Mazes which are curves closed on themselves, and the Without-why very denses Randoms. Depending on my mood, one or the other technique meets the need of the moment.
It's always the same drawn line, a ritual that invents itself in as with rules that should not be break. The line stops only if I put the pencil and picks up another, otherwise she has no right to stop - in Without-why it is as long as possible, as long as I sustain, sometimes 15 minutes with just one pencil. It crosses in Randoms but never in Mazes, open in Randoms - curve with a beginning and an end - and closed in Mazes - beginning joined the end and closes the curve so I have to be careful constantly to which is inside and which outside to never cross the line.
Rules are magical, no two identical colors side by side in a flat tint, no black, no straight lines, and the traces of the felt have to be not apparent. Before starting drawing, the choice of line’s colors - the skeleton - and flat tints - the bricks -  is meticulous. I have developed colors palettes, color charts which facilitate my decisions. As time went, I invent new rituals, the one of  color becomes important beyond the gesture, if I decide to use a range of colors, such as blue, I empty one by one all possible shades, uses markers in the order and did not return when used.
There are lots of little rituals, I don't always realize they surround me but performs them scrupulously. Don't cross the line, this is what makes possible and magical the production of these drawings , if the ritual is not running properly I can't draw.

My sons look at my drawings with fun, especially my oldest, why don't you do make shapes appear? But how could anything loom in there, it's not possible!
There are times when the usual gesture get empty , clumsy felts , tired, jaded. Once again it's no longer workable, why not try these forms, go further, juxtaposing colors of the same tone - that I shouldn't do normally, whatever, whatever, it’s no big deal, at worst it be ugly, anyway you're not doing a masterpiece.
Something is happening, between the lines these forms exist, make it appear is not easy, they fend off and the choice of colors is tricky. But the ritual allows the form to appear. The three techniques evolve, Randoms become figurative, tones organized in Mazes, Without-why when I really dont know how to do.
My drawings builds as these crossings limits, when no one really knows what is going on, imposed fences fall down, opportunities open up. Then, after the crisis is over, rules restart, the ritual barely metamorphosed, still in place, guide my gesture and protect it.

Small, I liked to read Olivier Rameau, this cartoon of a magical world on the other side real-world-where-people-are-boring. There were stories of mirror to be crossing through, parallel world, transformations. After that, I gone to Philemon, another dimension slightly more disturbing but probably even more captivating.
Cross the line, leaving the track, go caps, reverse the course of his own existence, exceed the white line, out of context, the hidden face of the mirror, only such secret places interest me. This is not about searching subversion, become off-the-law, fuck the system, all this bullshit.
My report to law is rather inflexible, raised in a specific context, we remain on the path where we are supposed to run, we follow the rules, you don't kidding about it, we don't even cheat. By a coincidence I got out of the frame, no plans, no matter. When you have went of the track you remade others, you know there is always something beyond the trail, you go back, continuous research, initially unconscious, over time more and more assumed, what can happen to me, it does not matter.

Back to my handdrawings, my lines, my rules, my magic ritual. There is always a moment when it is not enough, you have to go to another technique, recreating the moment no matter for that to happen,  only having the urge of this free line under my fingers, no prerequisites ideas, want to rip the stage, no matter what happens on this sheet, it is not important.
On the occasion of a visit to Paris, in the appartement's son, gone away for the Christmas holidays, I travel light, sketchbook, pencils, pens, we'll see. Back near my former school of architecture in the 19th, the park la Villette, the Buttes Chaumont where I took children, want to go too far once again, overstep the border, cross the line,  what may happen to you?
It is no longer one felt marker into my hands but a pencil core, a lead pencil. The lines come out on their own, it's a bit painful, passages still are, but it works. Normally I don't use black pencil, but now it's time, no matter. Normally I would never interrupt the line and don't make straight lines. It's time to do just the opposite, the unthinkable, short and dry line intersections at right angles, a kind of smaller crosses overlap. A very old gesture is repeated, buried, forgotten I thought, I spent my childhood, my adolescence doodling it everywhere, he filled the margins of my college years and high school, my grades into the architecture untied and structured it. I call these moments catharsis. They come back with more and more regularity, I start to tame them.

The need to get out of the frame, tearing the stage set requires to invent another one. Initially the idea is not a creation but destruction, erase the world surrounding me, I will be better without it, but the nothingness is not within my reach the whole time, you have to constantly replace it, turn around, delimit,  on the line. Maybe my rituals have only the goal to approach it, as preparatory ceremonies it will make it flat, I regularly overturns the altar, dethrones the icons, not totally, at least I try.

Month of June, several recent events prompt me to cross the line, to repetition, this is no longer painful, the path is signposted, I’m wary of the edge's traps, one must necessarily grow old.
I'm taking again my felt markers abandoned in recent months, something happened, this time impossible to act as if I didn't know. I know my frontier and how to jump over, just to get started, no matter what happens. Beginning with fine felt I focus on the line, I know it will need to get over, give up my rite, forward. Cross the line! That's what I do, the line is intersecting, allowing to mix Random, Maze and Without-why.

This Synthesis was unthinkable, there were no links between the different techniques because they do not express the same thing, especially because the ritual of each was its own. Cross the line! The latch skips, possibilities become almost limitless, nevertheless immediately the frame reappears, flat tints devote the ritual, not juxtapose colors, inside, outside, follow the line, to one side or the other, the time to get over I switched over in the mirror.

Rituals assist our lives, preparing to the passages, protect them. There is no disembodied gestures or a succession of meaningless moments, instead they focus on the meaning and do it appear, the meaning of the line, cross it or not, why and when.
Overstep the line has never been a game but a necessity. When the ritual is well done, when it is fulfill, metamorphoses illuminate, they are seen finally, we accept them or not, we can choose the new rules, cross the line, interrupt it, to close or open it, stay on the ridge or fill dents, densify or lighten.
And when you decide say no matter, no matter what happens.

myriam eyann


> Illustrations
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Friday, June 13, 2014
The eye of the tiger

Friday, June 6, 2014 - 6:15 - At the mill

The look of a tiger can't be forgotten. Normally, in the unprotected Nature, into the wild, if this look is crossed this is the last . It was in a zoo, modern zoos where we give the taste of freedom to animals without totally plunging them into it. We passed under a glass tunnel from which we could see a magnificent tiger safely. Between him and the audience a thick translucent wall allowed the audacities, those such as these kids pulling her tongue, doing the monkeys to mean You will not have me, outlet game kid in connection with the meeting of man-eater.
The tiger was lying peacefully in one or two meters of the tunnel and watched what was going on with attention and a hint of condescension. The agitation that took place behind the glass captivated him visibly, his gaze watch one by one little fellows that were gesticulating in front of him.
Who saw a cat freeze to observe his prey will include, the pupil which dilates,  the body tense as a strung bow, concentration seems to erase what exists around it. The tiger had not quite this tension, he knew that these silhouettes were inaccessible.
The situation was both grotesque and indecent, this animal and its untamable power in the face of children disrespectful of it, glass wall between two worlds, who is poking fun at the other?
I was watching this tiger, fascinated by its concentration, fascinated by his fascination, his eyes were lingering on each child and really saw him,  the expression eat gaze had to be invented to felines. Inevitably, our eyes finally intersect. A look of fear can't be seen, it slips away, flees foreign pupils perhaps for not to be devouring,  of the gaze.
I had this little reaction, but no,  then the desire to see it, to dive myself in his eyes, is what we were here for, discover, watch the animal kingdom, try to understand? Does my pupils have been dilated ? The sensation of being naked, no mask can deal with this tiger, an inescapable presence, he probed me , unequivocal,  it was that of the predator. If the window had not existed, my own would have been the one of the prey. This tiger hypnotized me, I thought about Shere Khan in the Jungle Book, you mix everything,  it is the snake that hypnotizes, that of Dysney 's Robin Hood Triste Sire, the Prince Jean's counselor Persifleur , returned to my memory. Sensation of paralysis and attraction, I can't make a move and have  the paradoxical desire to get closer, at least to stay there in the eye of the tiger, snapped up, caught me alive. The glass was not a staging, it was essential for the meeting but nevertheless it was not the game, there was usurpation.
I could bow my respect to this look and also I was ashamed to be on the side of those who hold power and busted through the eyes of an insane animal. Maybe I was more grotesque and indecent that thoses kids who didn’t know what they were doing.

I have a complex relation ship to  paralysis, stop times, dilated pupil, the position of contemplation is probably so innate in my case than for any feline. My relationship to look can become as an abyss, nature has invented the eye to observed it, to be admired, to be liked, to see it, look at it, recognize it, touch, meet, reach, eat, devour, and understand. Contemplate is a coronation that renews itself every day. To appreciate something you have to look long, the eye shape, over about what he sees the look get used to, better recognizes, sees faster, probe further. In architecture the look is what builds space. Sound perceptions, hearing, olfactory, tactile indeed, the reality of a space is first visual. By dint of sketches, observations, tracks, lines, thick lines or crosshatching, one end up liking what one knows. After having been sketching so many of these forms on paper, the obsession is in my eyes.


When we were young, sometimes we were allowed to stay in the lab of my father when he was developing his photos. You had to sit on the stool, there and you DON'T MO-VE at all! I didn't make noise, it's dark, Daddy is tinkering in red light or in complete darkness when it's about color. I stand still, don't have to deconcentrate him, sometimes whistling, I expect the shapes to appear on paper, sometimes we have the right to hold the small plastic clip and flip the photo in the tray, gent-ly slow-ly, other times it's really long and he cautioned that one could not get out straight away, one can't open the door, it could last half an hour, maybe more. When you come out of the lab, feel to wake up, airlock out and then want  to also return a little, it was rather funny to be in the dark, nose picking and nobody sees , make grimaces or have an idiotically unthinkingly, believe it's like night and we have the right to be awake.
During my studies of archi on the occasion of a photography course, the lab school recall my memories, tinkering in trays is funny, there are always one or two regulars who give lots of advice and shake the paw to whatever comes in, a wizard side that I like. I test developer, solarization, but it is damn complicated, a chemist job, maybe not my concern indeed, photo shoots on the street stress me out a bit, be the one who wants to see , people watching what I do, hard to assume the loop, gaze, my eye through the lens. Photo of archi is a specialty of or of architect or of photographer. It was probably too soon. The technical in photography is unavoidable as it is essential to learn the materials, their strengths and opportunities, constructive rules, constraints of land, of sunshine, when you want to see a building come true. So I did not become a photographer.

Since I was small I see pictures, exhibitions, installations, objectives and I don't understand much about it. Without paying attention my gaze has been formed, framing, detail, I look at the pictures of Dad, those of others, I have several at home. I don't know how to do it, I frame as Dad taught us, Be careful there you cut the head, hand, foot, you have to put people at the center of the photo, it's a shame the details here, but what have you done is fuzzy! I think of my classes, the teacher criticized our contact sheets, there it's good this small band, look this geometry it's interesting , this is rather anecdotally there you have some interesting lines. With a little concentration I find the framing, the right angle, the right place, the light that goes well, the proper perspective.

Digital reactivated my access to the photo. It's fun, easy, accurate, much shorter than the film, much cheaper too. I don't pretend to nice shot, I want a collection, a materials library, an art library, continue to immerse my gaze in the lines, shapes, textures, shadows, unhooked, details, materials, find a point of view, a graphic, an abstraction, my fascinations, contemplate. I turn around buildings, come closer, on tour I scan, I'm looking without thinking, turning a look a pinion is laid bare, volume salient here, stacking cubes, a curve that go with, smokestacks, towers communication, strains forests on roofs, brick and glass, frames, moldings, cornices, identification, where been post for the right picture, the right time, I pass, returns to the same places, finally get off and take out my mobile . Finally he makes better photo than my digital camera already old. I feel my eyes in metamorphosis, it happened to me from time to time to have this feeling, as the result of indigestion that has begun to hurt me a little uncomfortable, the obsession moves , bulimia which eventually sicken me. I know it takes a few days, let it go, digest without forcing, my gaze continues to evolve, the head turns slightly, inevitably something is moving in my visual center.

One must love what one devours, look long, take ownership, change of energy from one eye to the other, from the object to the eye, since my optic nerve, integrate, absorb energy, at least he not disappear. If you don't devour your dream, life will do it, that sentence of St Exupéry calmed me, I discovered there shortly, it sound as a promise, devour is a good way since it has bifurcations to dreams. When I'm not busy devouring what I see, I swallowed phrases in my reach. Exit contemplation is probably what is the most delicate, but how shall we do, on can't remain paralyzed all the time. What is happening in my mind, in my body through my eyes, is currently described as Elvis Presley in 1956 When you Looked into my eyes - I Stood there like I Was Hypnotised - You sent a feeling to my spine - A feeling warm and smooth and fine - But all I Could do stand were stand there paralyzed . No doubt we are not talking about the same thing. No doubt.

What we see in another look, in another script, another contemplation is probably only oneself. Does two glances can be mixed, really share what's compose them, on one side or the other, coming through. Stand within the place of the tiger, maybe it was me who hypnotized?
Object, subject, of course I mix everything but the important thing is the dream devouring.

myriam eyann

> Here is the song Paralysed - Elvis Presley
Posted at 17:14 - 0 comment

Sunday, May 25, 2014
Tom Hanks 's lonelines
original french text online since 25-05-2014

Friday, May 23, 2014 - 10:38 p.m. - mill

End of tour at 19:45 tonight, sh... round , shitty day, shitty week , year of crap, shitty life. Storms returning, clear time between drops, light and shade in the spring, sunsets was beautiful all week. It is almost 9.00 p.m. on the highway, I have dawdled, two phone calls before hitting the road. Fluorescent ray of light on buildings, gray blue background of a deep abyss next to the highway rest area. Nobody is waiting for me. What if my tower had good light, if I found the right angle? What if I seize the light tonight, a little? Turning in the empty commercial area looking for the right distance. Three roundabouts further, here I am, it is even more beautiful meadows.
Since my repeated passages near this red communication tower in the early morning or late evenings, the promise to myself that one day I will look after it, approach it, take time to watch. If one day telecommunication towers are deserted, I'll manage to squat one. A cave up there should be an unforgettable experience.

It's raining, a particularly stubborn beam hits my tower when I find access. Some pictures from the car with my cell phone. I'm about to leave, far away the road turns, what is that light there? side aisle available, I stop the engine, it's a rainbow being born. My tower lights, twilight gives me clarity, the rainbow unfolds slowly to draw a perfect semicircle. I only saw one rainbow entire sky in Provence, a few years ago, it was doubled, that is rare, two full semicircles is exceptional, it happens. It is rare to see the feet of the rainbows that balk at show their earthly attachments and prefer the clouds. Today this is where it appears to me, down to earth. Right place, right time, the important thing is not how things begin but how they end. A miracle  late in the day, others call it ecstasy, the important thing is faith. My life is full of such miracles. Perfect semicircle, birth of a second arc, very shy but it is certainly there.
Its best to wait the conclusion before ruling. The day was not over, the last word for the rainbow, weeks, years, life is straight in front of me. For several hours a storm was brewing anyway. Internet research, discovering other blogs, interviews, quotes. It is about loneliness, it annoys me but it's nothing to say, if I could even understand why. There are good feelings to discover in solitude that is true, but to claim it, create it, to search it as a starting point, the real life, the only portion of creation. Does loneliness be a choice? Tom Hanks in Cast Away does not choose his solitude. What are we talking about ?

We may end our life without being able to make a move in the incommunicable solitude of his own brain, we can begin its existence by paralysis or to land on a deserted island by accident, which is usually unlivable. Meet the Real is rarely a collective experience, except during wars, massacres and deaths. Tom Hanks has it's Wilson, a paralyzed girl invents pretty raptures and plays with her beautiful stories. What are we talking about?
Loneliness does'nt been invent, sharing either, which is the first between the egg and the chicken? What makes me angry is to be inaccessible. Imagine other inaccessible hardly console and ends up irritate me anyway. What are we talking about?
Into my second job, nurse, meeting solitudes is daily, disease, dementia, wounds and healing, pain of all kinds, anxiety, fear of the night, fear of day, go outside or not be able to do, resist, fight or accept, falls, fractures, bruises, ulcers inside or outside, spasms, sobs, unshed tears, decency, modesty, constipation or wordy, cynicism, self-pity, mutism, unwillingness or inability, illusion mastery, letting go, incontinence, deadlines, relentlessness, suspicion, gray complexion, pale, waxy, until the end suffering is too few sharing that enjoyment, that's how. Into my second job, liberal nurse, my tours only meet patients. Solitude caregivers, mine, theirs, I manage my feelings, good or bad depending on the day, do it properly or release, if you don't want to not come, you chose, you're paid for , it's your job. What are we talking about?

My work requires repeated practice of solitude, reading, writing, drawing.
My work, the real one, the one that feeds me. My first job, before being a nurse I am an architect, I learned to build, soft ground, unstable rock, sand, immersed in sea, one can find solutions foundations in any soil. No way forward towards my goals without this infinite time filled of me. Learn how to eliminate noise on the line and annoying background noise is critical. I seek this state of well-being, ecstasy, probably permanent, no need to name it I was born into it. Daily solitude necessary as are the lines at my fingertips, the colors, it doesn't hurt. I love silence and noise, light and dark, between the contrasts arise the metamorphoses. Sometimes you just have to wait, be there at the right time, right place, available, be there as often as possible, just in case. Over time the presences are discharged, we live with the absence. Be convinced that this loneliness is a choice allows to evacuate the origine of it, arrangement with the truth, it works well, assuming it is a land full with enjoyment, ecstasies and miracles, full of existence.

The possibility of sharing born of the overflow, of flood, pain, pleasure, rapture, it is humanly impossible to keep to ourselves these moments, the Real is not spoken but is diluted. We deposited a little there, a little here, the load is too heavy, you have to share, carry to several people . I was born patient, no doubt, long denied status, immediate action, reaction is still more fun, lively, enjoyable, it's in the risk that we find most substances. Even crash, in the worst you are dead, at least we will have a good life. Impulsivity is a key, enjoy what the sun shows, find the path to the tower, rainbow unexpected ,  so much better. What is reasonable does not interest me. What drives Tom Hanks to leave his island? We might just make it. We must find a way to live away from the cast away island, find the tone of the meeting, the trace of desire is the only one to follow, the right angle, three roundabouts later, my gift, a moment, the colors of a rainbow in the dark of night that installs.

9:18 p.m., the rainbow is fading away, now he lives in me. I dreamed about a real fight all week that would'nt be  a simulacrum to invent  reconciliation, a fantasy, yell at each other without tearing. What made ​​me angry is that no one is there to support along with me this day of sh... , year of shit, shitty life. A strong desire to bicker has taken possession of me. Reason enough to land in front of my communication tower tonight. What are we talking about? Ecstasy is an encounter with the Real, chance or accident, light ray, rainbow, the promise of sharing, one day I will speak of it, I'll show it, I will approach, I'll take care.

That's the desire that I give
It would take a whisper, a carry voice, measured, almost extinct so that some words are barely audible as little phrases we say hiding in the closet for we are not located and found, something that should especially not do any echo and remain in the space where it is pronounced, intended only to fill a small air cavity, the tiniest possible. If we could scream whispering I would.

myriam eyann


> Rainbow shoots
Posted at 10:26 - 0 comment

Saturday, May 10, 2014
As long as there are balls to untangle

Saturday, April 12, 2014 - 2:38 p.m. - at the mill

Yesterday sharing a video on Facebook, an artist has created a tangled skein of paperclips, a soft object about eight inches in circumference, but it is not a sphere rather a cluster, something that has no framework, a hybrid random structure moving between the mollusk and crustacean.
She handled gently, gently throws, one sees only the hand that takes this package, she hesitates, seeking his gesture looks like perplexed, incredulous as if she wondered what it is, or so what can I do with this thing or that shall prevent fascination to focus on another subject.
Fascinating indeed, I'm totally caught up in this picture, the hand manipulating this thing, the thing itself, all that this act of turning in all directions wake or attempts to emerge. I decided to share the video on my page and publish it with the comment: As long as there are things to sort out, all will be well.

My registration on Facebook date a few months. At first it was a way for me to network, I read on a chat that social networks are the new social skills, is what prompts me to participate, at least try, see what happens over there.
The beginnings are pervasive, it goes so fast, can we master such a flow, so much energy? It is addictive, time consuming, intriguing. I create a page, discovers, sharing, click on the like, publish my work.
Designs, graphics, photos, text, quotes, music, the source seems inexhaustible. At the beginning guided by the impulse of the moment my publications are going in all directions, the little lost ball Bourvil how to pass this publication of the INA, a funny quote takes place on my wall because it made ​​me laugh, an image that I like, a recovered memory of La Linea this little cartoon that we loved children, many works of art, beautiful pictures, of course. There are also so many cases in which commitment, awareness of what is happening in the world, position, reaction to political events, I surf too badly, like talking too fast without thinking about, one day comment further call to order, what happens here is not only virtual, it is a representation of reality, it speaks as you are.

Meanwhile my friends list grows, gradually I learn who is who, who is doing what, names come back, some will inevitably lose yet in the mass. My publications refocus my profile, sees friends is not fully controllable, forms back reactions or don't react to my attitude, my like, publications or comments.
What happens in this community looks like real life, a way to react, the rate of this reaction, the intrusive shy communicative mode, suspicious, generous, the position relative to each other. There are idols, some media figures, very active, those that dare not request, those we know and affordable. People change their avatar or their cover photo constantly, others always publish the same, there is the versatility, toughness, frivolity and depth, trhead, the disjointed words, sincerity and hypocrisy, representation and swap. Some profiles I like, how they use the tool fits my values​​, humanism, sharing, dissemination of knowledge, friendliness, respect.

Talking with my son about using Facebook. They say it's like a room, ok promised I would not return in yours. It's something young, well not I meet a lot of old. You can't master, ok I understood that too.
But this wealth of information, these images, something attracts me, let it be not rude but I'm not there to scatter me, the goal was to get into the network, take place in a manner or another. I publish less and observed. How do others do?
Internet is a great arena where everyone is speaking a kind of dream Socratic agora, finally. How to take part in the debate, how to be heard, do I have anything interesting to communicate elsewhere.
It's all so complicated, I look at the thing with perplexity on tips of my fingers, what can we do with it ? How to use this thing, what's the point?

When one persists in unraveling the ball, it becomes inextricable. A few months back feels good. I return to the net with conviction that I saw there is too beautiful, I can not give up. Cropping on my goals, the tool is so powerful, the goal is to do better with than without. Facebook works in the mode of sharing, I like this word share! This is what I want to do.
Discovered artists are both a source of inspiration, a suitable emulsion for my creations a promise of sharing. My preferences emerge around writing in particular, calligraphy, line, also return to the architecture, I continue to commit myself to certain causes and my network includes everything that revolves around these themes. This tool is confusing as human relations. I am also here to share my work, I do it in hopes of a return, the like I also love them.

The confrontation with the agora is a test of sociability whatever is said, we can only use that way with social resources and skills that we already live in, what it's coming back returns in the mirror is the picture not so deformed of ourselves, in the reflection is only a part of what exists, appearance condenses the essential.
To understand anything you must look for a very long time, who said that? It is not surprising that my shares will constitute Videos such as that shows the mass of paperclips, we love each other in what we are.
What is created is a representation, what is shown is a construction that reflects the person behind the mounting, walls are similar to their authors and internet to the mass that moves constantly, a non form fickle and slippery frame .
What we create, what we watch, what is perceived, which broadcasts, which remain anonymous, which means, that we care, that we share ....

On the occasion of Provencal holidays, exchange evening around what is the matter, what is perceived, you see this object, it is because you perceive, the mythical little phrase was wrong, it was rather, I see this object, I see it because I exist. Difference of perception, philosophy of matter, we are this thinking matter, the possibility of consciousness pre-exist in what constitute us, this is my way to solve the mysteries, my religion, my animism.
When I make a fire at the mill, watch the wood burn is a magnificent performance, the ember is vibrant, lively, cheerful, it transmits its energy, warms my body and soul. I go over the logs in the fireplace, shapes, patterns and faces appear in the furnace. Sometimes the fire is extinguished, the buche partially calcined ashes escapes and joins in the early morning collection of textures which populates my home.
What I saw in the woods, this buche so different, is a projection of my perceptions, an avatar of itself, transformation, changing destiny, buche not become ash but a picture, contemplation, Vishnu reincarnates, this is the definition of the avatar.
Purni explains the three Hindu deities, the stages of development, nirvana, detachment, follow the middle way, never ever think of the goal to reach it, the path of love only makes sense, love makes the material live, look and sharing , channel and define a specific point, about the one achievement, the most beautiful flower does not exist in the desert because nobody can touch it. Does the truth exists, can we share, what we perceive, what plans, what is said, what is done ....

I know a little more today, my socials skills grow and tangled skein rest, it's the better.
I don't know how to do it but do it anyway.
This phrase has become my mantra. It does not mean we should do without knowing how, or that what we do when it's not known to do it is a good thing, or that which is important is the action and doing at any cost even if we don't know. What it expresses is my matted ball and my surprise to find it permanently work in progress.
I don't know how to do it but do it anyway.

Saturday, May 10, 2014 - 6:48 -  at the mill

myriam eyann


> About the artiste Sandra Portto
Posted at 6:59 - 0 comment

Wednesday, May 7, 2014
If I fall

Thursday, February 7, 2013 - 5:23 p.m.

It happened during a period of delirium believe me at the edge of an immense chasm, extractor fan surrounded by dizziness. My fall seemed inevitable, a multitude of people going to get sucked, ready to fall, pushing, pushing without purpose, unable to restrain themselves, brought there by a greater strenght than their combined masses, could not be arrested . A sort of giant bulldozer raked in fact all this world to the precipice. No one had wanted to fall, that's when the idea came. If the gulf could swallow us one by one he would have less power if we fall all related to each other. If given a large piece of meat to a ravenous beast even incredibly, fierce and sharp teeth, it can stifle to swallow too much or if it has already swallowed part and it can not be divided and sticks that which is not yet in her throat, she missed air sooner or later, even a chasm needs to breathe to stay alive.

If I fall you fall, if you fall I fall

Thereby linked, if I fell, all fell, if one fell, we all would follow. It's not me it was saved but all through my own link. If I fall you fall, if you fall I fall. Weaving my links is a measure of survival, if one day the gulf tries again to suck me or if someone pushes me, a chain reaction will do that whatever happens my links prevent the fall. Perhaps that it is the way to goes kill the gulf.

If you fall I fall, if I fall you fall

myriam eyann


> Petry of St Augustin and Charles Peguy
Posted at 4:33 - 0 comment

Monday, April 7, 2014
Until peril, the Braque injury

Monday, December 30, 2013 - 12:00 - coffee Le Pére Tranquille (district of Les Halles in Paris)

Arrived to Les Halles, great renovation operation is ongoing, for more than 50 years this area was restructured, the project seems inordinate, the result may be up to par. This need to make his mark, scoring his time, to work, since when mankind is caught up in this whirlwind?

Back to Braque exhibition at the Grand Palais this morning, too crowded, jostling, no privacy to discover that deep in me maybe I know since a long time. Sharp lines, dry and precise, something brittle that has always captivated me, further curves, what am I doing, a desire to cry despite promiscuity, there is here a confirmation wich is no longer fearfull, no way to escape, I know it myself, these drawings in front of me can not deny it , so something is in me unintentionally . Figure out what has crept into my subconscious, the first reproductions of Braque views at the time I started debut architec, at the time of the first lines, intersections, contrast, gradients, read anything about him or whatever he wrote, a ghost in my fingers, how to come back to the tide, previously, _ afterward, maybe stay in my bubble would be better, continue to not watch anything will allow to see nothing.

In the bookshop, a gentleman said it's too hard, I understood one, the rest is too abstract. He is young, under 40, I fail to understand myself. Nothing more simple, more clear, what should be understand, there is anything to understand, how to do for not seeing these graphics, what incomprehensible could they countain? The impression of harmony, such an obvious order, logic. Tiny, I'm just a small thing, maybe I'll shut up until the end, stop drawing, on can not say anything, do anything after that. Nevertheless like after reading Romain Gary and other authors sometimes, irresistible need to extend the conversation passing in front of several drawings, put me to work, I must bumps, not arrested, plunges into it. At other times, crushed, this mass of people around me, who am I to say say anything, to draw?

Quote from Georges Braque in the book back from the exhibition: the artist must feed the paint, feed her of his flesh, his mind, almost until he lost consciousness, he have to lose his deep sens, to commit himself to perils in the way of complete fidelity. Art is an injury that becomes light.

Deep within me I'm left with nothing, the essential, what I am not supposed to lose, one say the only way is to give but looks at me, what is so scared, fall into the trap, believe to brigthness that would dwell in me, lose my goose with the golden eggs, rather not finding it . How Georges Braque's graphics 50 years ago dead could justify mine, why my gestures would reproduce without knowing it, why nothing new can happen?

> about Goerges Braque and restrospective at the Grand Palais
Posted at 8:41 - 0 comment

Monday, April 7, 2014
Cave and the Winter Garden from Dubuffet

Shortly before starting to draw, I had a dream.
I was stuck in a large cave not quite beige, a little dirty, not scary, but rather tasteless and unsurprisingly, and I was trying to get out. I found a staircase that had all the promise of an exit. Inevitably, he rode! Top of the stairs, however, a closed door. The passage existed, there was his track again, Anyway I remembered to have borrowed this issue now condemned.
I knew what was behind that door, a large terrace to look far away, sun, wind, blue sky, space, many space. I had been there before, but I knew it was not really an issue. A lure at most.
I went down. The atmosphere was totally boring, so insipid, I had no desire to stay in the cave. The walls were rounded inshell, as in the Barbapapas'home. There were scattered, full turnstile color mounted on wooden rods, I don't know how to call that toys turning with the wind (or if they have a name) .
There was no wind, but the toys turned vaguely. I didn't even look at these colors, or realize that I saw them, they existed spite of my indifference. These toys were the only living part, the only thing that could hold my attention in this no man's land. However it was not what I scanned, but the available space, the form and essence of the place, the sense that I could take.

The outcome didn't exist, I had to deal with what was there. I ordered the door to the stairs myself, long before, in another space-time, because it led to a place where I no longer wanted to go. The terrace is another space, another possibility, which it is also impossible to escape. This is a final step that leads to nothing, only just a little contemplation. The only way to go is to turn back, or else straddling the parapet, you can jump into the void. But it has never been imaginable that my story would be grabbed by nothing, not even in a dream .....

I started to draw, momentarily forgetting my dreams of cave.
Tenacious family legend tells that my greatest pleasure when I was small was to put in order, my crayons and schoolgirl’s felts by shades and align them before me like a treasure. Sometimes it is believed that the river runs dry, but sometimes it reappears a short distance away after a forgotten underground passageway. The use and contemplation of the colors became at that time the source of my drawings.

A few years later, I discovered The Winter Garden by Dubuffet, during a visit to the Musée d'Art Moderne of the City of Paris.
It is a kind of white cave, motley thick black lines, all battered; One enters through a heavy door remains open, enlightens all. The base is lightweight, the footsteps resound, it is the feeling of walking on the hollow. Everything is bumpy floor and walls, uneven. Irresistibly I sit on a ledge, there are several arranged here and there. I look at the ceiling of the cave, more random than the roof terrace of the Casa Mila in Barcelona. Everything is white, milky, any noise. I am unable to go. And why would I? Why not stay there as long as possible? Appeasement experienced resting me in this sculpted architecture has never find an equivalent elsewhere. If I could I would stay there again.
On returning to my small apartment, I watched the wardrobe, only piece capable of being converted. To start I said to myself, it will be good, although a little cramped, but I soon find a home where my cave accommodate.
Three moves later, my breeding project (plagiarism, yes, I admit !) is still pending. It is sometimes more difficult than you think to carry out dreams.

Dreams caves to another, as Robinson in her spotless hose, I finally make a drawing called of course "Cave". This title is probably not very original, but it is not about a singular distinguish me that my fellow, rather to stage a necessary regression , to feel deep inside me an inseparable atavistic origin of my humanity: what could be more original than a cave to get to draw?
One will say: "What pretentious! "especially since the human in question is a woman here, but after all there is no evidence that Lascaux was painted by a man (a boy I mean!).
It will be said: "What Pride" pretend back to the original artistic gesture, and why not gesture demiurgic creator!
I don't have so many intentions. I throw some curves as is my habit, reveals a feminine form on the left side, develops, and not knowing how to finish the drawing, I stick her colors after arms at fingertips because I don't know how else.
Running the drawing I told myself my dream cave again, I mentioned the sacred serenity felt in the garden Dubuffet, and without realizing it, invented legend to my drawing, all personal and secret then. The story exists only if I tell, and I can't imagine anything else when I see this picture. The desire to build, spread the colors in my shelter, the need to stay there and not leave my refuge, even caulking leaks, anyway there are no other issues.
The story is now part of my brain, indelible, like the color of my markers supposed to be "permanent", we are reassured as we can, as black lines sculptures by Dubuffet.
All this might be pathetic, but it is not because I continue to dream of the cave on the walls which I would draw one day.

May 14, 2012

myriam eyann


> More about Jean Dubuffet
Posted at 5:22 - 0 comment

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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