« La maison où j’habite. Là où je deviens », said the inebriated poet.
My study has its own architecture, closed in by books, defined by music, imagined in drawings. It is based on the branched vice of the understanding. It has its own smell. The smell of closed narcotic which escapes through an open window that we never know how to close. A smell to happen.
It doesn’t lack taste. Sometimes it has a sugary taste of sweets and success, other times it tastes of Japanese cuisine, cultivated and yet to be completed and most times, it’s a bitter, persistent taste. Like melancholy. It also has its own touch. Variable. Made up of the skins of a thousand million lying bodies. Wet and dry. The same way as when you pass your fingertips over a footprint on the earth, as when you moisten a finger on the brim of a glass or cross a spider’s web with your hand.
Here, within this cultural framework, I wax and wane.