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
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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