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

> Links
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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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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