Skip links


Will we ever leave school? Will we ever leave the boxes of our childhood notebooks? And in the process, outside the world of school, can we avoid a few tables of the law and the feeling of fault or even guilt that are associated with them?

If not, then perhaps we can never finish with school!

Our five senses, wearing a blue or pink apron, are put to the test, according to classes, rows, tables, codes

Our five senses, wearing a blue or pink apron, are controlled by classes, rows, codes, invectives, timetables and many other mini power devices that will end up getting the better of our innermost physiological circuits!

Typographic writing has the value of law, handwritten writing is affiliated to it by placing it in boxes and measures.

At the end of the pen, carried by a young hand, the ink becomes a line, swells, lengthens or shrinks more than it should, a drift, compared to the sacrosanct canon, the letters missing their model, grimace, one would say, it is perhaps their way of entering into resistance!

This frequent failure is pure clumsiness – to be rectified – for the guardians of the school temple; it is pure expression for us others! One does not miss that by neuromuscular immaturity; one deforms in the direction of the other form; swollen by an impulse all supported by the phantasm. There would always be an elsewhere which draws us in its furrow.

As a young schoolboy, in writing, I saw and tasted the drawing; at the edge of the page, my eyes made the words and lines, the pleasure that they drew from it never stopped and it is thanks to it, that I sometimes draw the light from my lines!

If the words and the drawn sentences arouse in me the most lively emotions it is because of the motions and other locomotions which give legs to the words, one makes of them funny insects advancing with the tail leu leu, out of the confined air of the class, out of rows!

Handwriting, that of my comrades, my brothers, mine, and that of many others

A crucial breviary that awakened my aesthetic sense;

Among all writings, the one I came across one day (I must be seven or eight years old) in the folds of a notebook carefully written by the hand of a French gendarme definitely acquired me to the magic of graphic signs. Written with a pen, italic, violet, floral, I spent a long time grazing its delights and daydreaming around its stems and its volutes. I wonder at times if my destiny was not mapped out by the care of this exquisite pen?

It is from this notebook and the reveries it caused that I was able to glimpse the becoming of fauna or flora of a procession of handwritten signs: the birth of the page-landscape.


Natural sciences and chemistry were the fields of knowledge by which crossroads led me to the threshold of aesthetic skills. The graphic activity instructed from the naked eye or behind the lenses of a microscope, makes the pencil a real tool for the analytical approach of the living being that it is plant, animal or animalcule. The linear transposition is enchanting, not because of its concern for realism, which is unattainable, but on the contrary because of its failure, which reveals an embryonic manifestation of style. With this one, the line is pressed, going to the limit of the paper’s cracking, with the other, it delicately caresses the surface, here it tapers like a Giacometti, elsewhere it blisters in imitation of Boterro! As an aesthete, I went through the drawings of the one and the other, gleaning in a melodic line the differences in their views and treatments, yet driven by the same motif.

Chemistry is that other discipline which, in the past, has aroused in me an indelible astonishment and interest and had left its mark on my imagination.

Such a complex universe can be reduced to a playful combination of a handful of atoms is enough to make you reconsider your fundamentals! An atom is an electrical device which, apart from its nucleus provided with a mass, remains fundamentally a quasi empty entity, the electrons corresponding to its peripheral layer provide it with the essential of its properties; its elective affinities with other types of atoms depend on it. Such a beautiful table called “Mendeleïev’s table” declines on more than one hundred boxes of all the atoms-notes entering the composition of the world.

A fabric, a network, a texture, etc., no matter how complex their appearance, are in fact only the result of the interweaving of elementary entities, what it is basically a question of finding the energy with adhesive potential, putting together a new emerging property!


Written signs can be worth their own weight in gold, they would not refer to any meaning and they gain by persevering in what they are materially, visually: a line that folds and unfolds, unfolds or stops, rushes or, on the contrary, slows down its course.

A handwritten script, commonly, is blurred below the meaning it conveys, because what it tells in filigree and under the words is the story of a body or even a pulpit at the moment of their transubstantiation in a line with minutely chopped folds. One could easily assimilate it to a graphic wave which by its period, its amplitude, in short its rhythm would betray a state of the nerves, a tone which is like a vanishing point standing at the junction of a musculature and a desire.

Everything that is chanted, erupted, reiterated, insisted upon, etc., is like a call invoking an elsewhere.  Is like a call invoking an elsewhere; divinity or absolute.

The repetition in my drawings and paintings is wildly atheistic and cheerfully loses the north, it gives in the labyrinthine, the bushy, mimicking the unfathomable folds of the brain, manifesting the complexity of flows and networks.

A bug can be born from an erasure, from a contest of random lines, fishes can fly or exotic plants can grow; here fauna and flora do not claim any legend, they like to exist out of the definitions, maybe this way they will be able to play all the roles, proposed by the wandering eyes of the spectators .

Calligraphy in Islamic culture is affiliated with prayer; letters are aesthetically codified so that the afterlife can be seen in them. Here, nothing of the sort, the writing is cursive, ordinary, its figure remains hidden from us because it is too closely linked to the flesh and its wild desires.

A cheerful eye circulating in a handwritten page is an eye dedicated to work, among the furrows of the sentences it gardens, it cultivates; as a democrat it lets the roses grow as well as the weeds. The swarming hand responds to the call of the eye, between the lines it sets to work; by throwing its lasso of ink it proposes a sieve to the light. The uneven pores bring a surplus of nuances and textures to this little drama made exclusively of light and ink!

Octobrer 2018