Elle s'endort, enveloppée de blanc.
Derrière son visage apaisé elle semble pourtant soucieuse.
Qui est-elle. De quoi ses rêves sont-ils faits. Mon regard posé sur elle me semble un peu volé.
Je n'ose pas la regarder.
J'aime ses yeux qui s'étirent lorsqu'elle sourit, le jour.
Là, elle me rend tendre, mais me fait un peu peur.



Elle s'est réveillée, avec une toute petite voix à peine perceptible.
Ses yeux se sont étirés quand elle m'a sourit bonne nuit, puis ses pas ont effleuré le bois de l'escalier qui plonge vers nos chambres, sans même le faire craquer.


Je me sens bien ici.
Je me sens chez nous.

It's weird how leaving this apartment I've been living in for 3 years is giving me a melancholic feeling. I really had enough of this place, and therefore I had decided this move for a long time. Now that the day have come, each piece of furniture that I'm removing reminds me of the moments attached to it.

This place has been, somehow, the shelter inside my exile. I had never really bared the city and the surroundings. The view from the third floor's balcony wasn't something one could call beautiful. It was grayish, tasteless, uninspiring, thus I've always had a tendency to shut the windows and live confined between those walls, with my paintings and my inner visions. With time this apartment turned into a painter's workshop. When I think about it, I have painted seven canvas there _ almost all of them. Not a lot of people have passed that door, but those who came hav approached closely my artistic cell, and somehow, played a role in it.

At last. This isn't that easy to deconstruct piece by piece this little universe. Somehow, it was the symbol of my resistance to the void and the gray that resided outside; this place has accompanied me all along my interior quest; and here, through those endless moments of loneliness, through the music that was played, and with the ones that were beloved, I've learned so much about myself. I've found how rewarding were the struggles, the pains endured, the doubts, when eventually you become your true and sincere self _ and not what the outer world urges you to become.

I've hated that place. As contradictory as it might sound, the rage I felt towards its emptiness, its cold, has pushed me towards a better me.

Exile, I'm leaving you.
But I thank you too.
I've been lonely but safe. I felt angry but loving too.
I'm leaving you and I am freed.
I'm a bird.
Except that now,
I am able to fly.

I dared to try for new year's eve being alone with all that I thought was truly important to me.
I opened up a small bottle of white Chardonay. The spaced was filled with the transcendent voice of Loreena Mc Kennitt, from her latest album; thereafter the piercing voice of my beloved cousin, and a letter with her warmhearted words lying there on the table. Candles. A beautiful book with photographs of statues of angels. My favorite mustard flavored potatoes chips.
The thoughts of all the people I cared for.

Me and the paint.

This is the most deep, sincere, and mystical midnight supper I have ever made.

I have painted until 3:30 in the morning that night.
I'm getting better everyday at opening, almost on demand, that little door I found within my heart. The little one that reveals the underlying truth.



. Loneliness, Light and Love .


Little hints of color yellow
You know you hold bits of light in you fingers
And their warmth glow
and it spreads shivers
Into you blood, into your chest
Oh I Love, I Love, I Love
It dwells inside my heart
And it makes me fragile and free

I wish you knew
I'll do my best
I wish you knew
I'll do my best to paint it out for you




And,
I'm glad I can offer you those little pictures of the loveliest twin lambs that can be. They were born this very morning at my aunts' farm, to celebrate the first dawn of a brand new year.

Etrange comme les coeurs, sauvages, incompris, déchirés ou meurtris peuvent changer encore. Dans la somme des peines, dans le feu de nos démons et pour peu que le temps passe, on se souvient et l'on comprends peut-être.
Il y eut ces étés et ces hivers loin de nous, loin de tout, et ce lit grand et froid où l'on fermait les yeux avec pour seule compagnie la pensée de cet autre, absent; aujourd'hui seulement il nous semble, alors qu'aucune convenance ne nous relie encore, que l'on parvient à toucher du doigt notre âme.
C'est comme un soir d'orage
Sous un ciel bas et lourd(Oui, c'est du Beaudelaire.. )
Et ce grondement sourd
Comme un sombre présage

Tu es là dans mon dos
A souffler doucement
Ton ventre sur ma peau
Palpite lentement

Le plafond ténébreux de colère et de rage
Qui eût dû s'éventrer pour libérer enfin
En trombe déferlante une pluie de chagrins
Est resté gris et sage

Et je garde dans moi ce douloureux tissage
De questions sans réponse et de pensées sans lien
Qui masque à ma vue les traits de ton visage
Qui me lie, m'emprisonne, qui loin de toi me tient

Tu es là, endormie,
Un sourire serein, tu respires à demi
Dans le creux de ta paume je dépose ma main
Et m'en vais te rejoindre dans ce pays lointain
Ici je m'abandonne
Au bonheur de l'oubli


Il y a si longtemps je t'écrivais des poèmes, comme celui-là, un soir de novembre 2004; les lirais-tu autrement aujourd'hui?
Lorsque parfois, au hasard de nos vies, ton ventre vient se poser contre mon dos, et que le parfum de ton cou vient apaiser mon être, le temps d'une heure, d'une moitié de nuit, je sais que tu es là.
Tu as toujours été là.

Un croquis au stylo dans un coin de bloc à dessin.

Je ne sais pas.

Comme on se sent étrange et vain quelques fois.
Comme une simple étreinte, ce parfum que l'on connaît peut nous soutenir tout entier.

I've received today in the mail the 13th release of Spectrum art book. The number and diversity of works displayed is amazing. It's really an great honor to have a painting appearing here, next to such an impressive gathering of big names in the fantasy and surreal art field.
Queen of Technical Nonsense appears at the very end, surrounded by beautiful works from the so famous and stunning artists Jason Chan, David Bowers and Richard Hescox.
It's the first time I get a painting published in an art book.