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

On Banksy, a British artist who protects his identity while exposing his stencils and creates situations and installations which question the capitalist world

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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