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
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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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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