The convenience of having ennemies
_ my best enemy.
It was one of those casual mornings, during my new routine consisting in traveling from home to the office every day by tram. Past ten in the morning, the crowd gets sparse and only made of the retired persons, the slow-waking students, or the high-inertia freelance guys like me I suppose. A cloudy and quiet moment five years after I casted that purse on him, urging him to never cross my way.
I saw him by the window, walking calmly across the large, empty Pey Berland square, alone and serene under the protective gaze of the immense cathedral.
I remember back in time. He was the ideal suspect, not high enough in the hierarchy of friends to get sacrificed without too much loss. I realized much later, when time had passed and I had grown to minimize the sorrow of defeated self-esteem, that I needed him, to provide me with the comfortable reason for my own failure.
And it's been five years now.
I look at my best enemy by the window as the tram slides along the large curve surrounding the square. The same man as before, with the same inexpressive face. I want to feel pity ( anger has faded away long ago ). Instead comes a seemingly excitement, and suddenly, staring at the silhouette walking, I realize that some admiration sustains my look. Or is it fascination for my only enemy? I look away like caught in the middle of a vicious mania, and concentrate for some old anger to resurface and wipe out that feeling. I have my pride, you know.
I should be ashamed to ever show that I care the slightest bit. It's been five years now. Curse over. He's right on time, there walking before my eyes, while I'm trapped behind the glass window; the man to which I had promised a punch in the face is right on time, after five years, to remind me how much he succeed where I failed.
Murmure
It's a ballpoint pen drawing that I doodled on my little black notebook in the tramway.
It says ( translated)
The day I met you
You were speaking in silence
I was holding a murmur at the tip of my fingers
I was looking at no one
And had been singing softly for a long time the rhythm of seasons
A little old maybe, dreamer for sure
Once home I sat and drew this man.
I know he looks bizarre; his face features are disproportional, and his look asymmetric. One eye looks up, the other looks on the left. Is that the expression of this persistent dichotomy of mine ?
I didn't think much about what I was doing actually, and maybe that's the reason why he looks so me-like _ or at least the state of mind I was in.
The pencils I used didn't give me much chance to correct the mistakes.
Anyway.
Julie came home in the middle of it, offered me a rum and stayed a little while by my side. She was quite in advance of the drinks to say the truth; and I wasn't talking much.
It's silly how much I missed painting.
Dance me to your beauty
but you ignore that
until you realize they were stolen from you.
I'll have my identity back.
And the heart that doesn't ache no more
But it's calling
Oh it's calling
And I muted it all over and over.
Rage and revenge boiling
But I think wait. Wait still a little bit
I'll have my identity back.
Because I painted this morning
saying farewell to all duty
With that strength carved on the forehead
Brushes in my hand
Long time no see
Scary how they melt with my fingers instantly
And suddenly a single breath feels like falling from hundredth floor
The devilish touch pierces the shields and the boiling urges. To hold on or to collapse.
How do I still contain?
And this song by L.Cohen
Just heard a blues version by Madeleine Peyroux
So soothing in morning hesitations; it lets you understand how much all can be wrong.
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in
Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
me to the wedding now, dance me on and on
Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long
We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the children who are asking to be born
Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn
Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin
Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in
Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Dance me to the end of love
Fantasy Art Now
I had the chance to have 3 of my paintings featured in the book Fantasy Art Now by Martin McKenna, published by Ilex Press. Martin has selected artworks from the "leading fantasy artists and rising stars", and has contacted and invited the artists personally.
Backdoor Into Luxuriance, Tears of Joy in the Garden of Giants and Purple Spattered Memories appear in the book at generous size. Some are slightly cropped but it's barely noticeable.
I am very satisfied with the quality of the book, the fidelity of the colors, or the way the images are emphasized and valued. Moreover, each painting as some of the artist's thoughts as side notes, which give the images another dimension.
Although the themes are mainly among the most common fantasy standards ( warriors, dragons and destructions scenes for instance), which is generally not my cup of tea, the quality of the art is not discussable. I enjoyed mostly more sensitive, dreamy artworks, such as Melanie Delon's or Rebecca Guay's to name the ladies first. 
To top it all, the foreword was written by Mr Boris Vallejo himself, which means the Master whose art I was worshiping in my youth might have seen one of my paintings... It makes me feel rather weird and somehow proudly smiling :)
rêverie
En plein jour je compte les étoiles
La folie au ventre la poitrine nouée
Un instant s'oublie dans les nuées
L'âme et la liberté d'un vagabond dément
Il fallut que je goûte aux sucs des fleurs des champs
Leur jus amer leur épines leurs pétales
En plein jour je compte les étoiles
Les lèvres cisaillées de blessures d'argent.