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CŒURS D’ETOILES ET TOILES DE CŒUR
THE SONG OF HEART « Est-ce ainsi que les hommes vivent et leurs baisers au loin les suivent… »
Accord perdu à cœur perdu, l’humanoïde fut de tout temps belliqueux. Un jour, manipulant les amulettes, il voulut en avoir le cœur net et découvrit le feu. Usant de sots briquets et de mèches rebelles, il prit sauvagement goût à la chose et, toutes braises à l’aise, devint rapidement bien meilleur cuisinier que naguère, n’ayant plus aussi souvent mal au cœur. Cœur d’airain, il fut également derechef équipé tout terrain, touchant au cœur une armée de monstres pédestres, marins, voire amphibies qu’il ne portait pas dans son cœur. Ces êtres sans cœur s’avéraient tous plus voraces dévoreurs de races les uns que les autres. Il fallait avoir le cœur bien accroché pour s’y approcher. De bon cœur et redressé de ses torts, il marchait debout sur deux pattes et occupait la majeur partie de son temps libre au cœur de l’atelier peinture, sculpture et macramé d’un lascar nommé Lascaux, ancêtre grotesque de nos actuels galeristes et commerçants d’art assimilés. À cœur ouvert, il philosophait parfois sur le sens de la vie, ce qui lui redonnait du cœur au ventre et le cœur serré, évoquait les crocs mignons de ses Cro-magnon géniteurs qu’il avait tant aimé de tout cœur. Cœur changeant, il s’enflammait subitement, avec cœur, d’excessifs sentiments, prenant à cœur d’honorer telle promise sur un coup de cœur, ce qui lui valait ensuite la réputation de sans cœur, ou de célébrer tel dieu par des prières apprises par cœur. Faisant contre mauvaise fortune bon cœur, il serrait sur son cœur gros les restes encore tiédasses d’un animal préhistorique de compagnie qu’il avait dû sacrifier un soir de malchance au jeu de hasard du dîne au sort, contre un as de cœur. Ouvrant son cœur, il laissa filer les heures, puis les jours et les siècles, descendant naïvement de l’arbre pour se retrouver un jour sans gloire en plein champ de bataille abreuvé de sillons écoeurants.
« Le ciel était gris de nuage, il y volait des oies sauvages qui criaient la mort au passage... » Précisément en ces temps là, d’absurdes baïonnettes transpercent la quiétude des matins froids d’interminables hivers, corps à corps à cœurs ouverts aspirant et refoulant, donneurs de sang du champ d’honneur, poussières et nerfs de guerres aux ordres de vagues étoilés, astres du désastre, sacrés fils du sacrifice, sabreurs d’âmes aux vendeurs d’armes. Toute reconstruction d’un univers dévasté génère une obsessionnelle idéologie du plus jamais ça et de la nouveauté. L’existence et la joie associées à un besoin débridé de consommation rythment aussitôt une résurrection effrénée, vox populi d’un sphinx glouton et jouisseur balayant devant la porte de l’essor, les cendres encore fumantes des mornes saisons occises de mort violente. L’homme peut mieux faire. Foin de débats tronqués, calculs, horreurs et velléités politiciennes, quelques uns affichent alors massivement une nouvelle ère de jouissance et de loisir, un tiens valant mieux que deux tu ne l’auras peut-être jamais...
Ils portent haut de musculeux héros de bandes dessinées sauveurs du monde, s’attardent sur la mutine poitrine d’une star platine, consacrent le règne sans précédent de la radieuse ménagère fétichiste et accessoirisée, érigent le jusqu’alors ordinaire en délectable soupe pop populaire, symbole de l’homme des boîtes, de jour comme de nuit. L’amnésie à tout prix installe et conserve l’esthétique au centre de la vie, des sentiments et du corps. Parmi les thèmes emblématiques de ces constructeurs témoins d’après guerre, le cœur, icône de glamour, de charme, de sexe, de dépit et d’intrigues essentielles, loin d’être mis à l’index, occupe la place majeure et envahit les nouveaux médias révélateurs d’une liberté retrouvée. Cimaise d’aujourd’hui, palpitante de Paris, vibrante d’énergie et d’enthousiasme, conscience passionnée sensible et généreuse, as-tu du cœur?
Orchestrés de main de maître, Combas et Kijno, Ben, Dine, Haring, Monory, Seguí, Pavlos, Rancillac, Raynaud, Schlosser, Messac, Klasen, Liot, FC Sofia, Gilli, Emin, Erró, Hirst, De Saint Phalle et Warhol, vibrent brillamment en chœur, rythmant leurs partitions virtuoses et intimes d’un chant éclatant, puissant, inconditionnel et éternel, the song of heart.$
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HEARTS OF STARS AND CANVASES OF HEARTS. THE SONG OF HEART
"Is this how men live and their kisses follow them...Agreement lost to heart, the humanoid was always bellicose". One day, while manipulating the amulets, he wanted to know for sure and discovered fire. Using silly lighters and rebellious wicks, he took a wild liking to it and, with all the embers at ease, quickly became a much better cook than before, not being so often sick at heart. With a heart of steel, he was also once again equipped with all terrain, touching the heart of an army of pedestrian, marine and even amphibious monsters that he did not carry in his heart. These heartless creatures were all more voracious devourers of races than the others. One had to have a good heart to get close to them. Good-heartedly and righting his wrongs, he walked upright on two legs and occupied most of his free time in the heart of the painting, sculpture and macramé workshop of a rascal named Lascaux, grotesque ancestor of our current gallery owners and assimilated art traders. With an open heart, he sometimes philosophized on the meaning of life, which gave him back his heart and the heart squeezed, evoked the cute fangs of his Cro-magnon progenitors that he had loved so much. A changeable heart, he would suddenly become inflamed with excessive feelings, taking it to heart to honor such and such a bride on a whim, which then earned him the reputation of being heartless, or to celebrate such and such a god with prayers learned by heart. Making against bad luck good heart, he clutched on his fat heart the still tepid remains of a prehistoric pet that he had to sacrifice one evening of bad luck to the game of chance of the dîne au lot, against an ace of heart. Opening his heart, he let the hours, then the days and the centuries go by, naively descending from the tree to find himself one day without glory in the middle of a battlefield full of sickening furrows. "The sky was gray with clouds, wild geese flew in, screaming death as they passed..." Precisely in these times, absurd bayonets pierce the quietude of the cold mornings of interminable winters, body to body with open hearts sucking and pushing back, blood donors of the field of honor, dust and nerves of wars to the orders of waves stars, stars of disaster, sacred sons of sacrifice, saboteurs of souls to sellers of weapons. Any reconstruction of a devastated universe generates an obsessive ideology of the never again and the new. The existence and the joy associated to an unbridled need of consumption rhythm at once a frantic resurrection, vox populi of a gluttonous and enjoying sphinx sweeping in front of the door of the rise, the still smoldering ashes of the dreary seasons occured of violent death. Man can do better. No more truncated debates, calculations, horrors and political will, some of them then massively display a new era of enjoyment and leisure, one yours is better than two you may never have it... They carry high muscular heroes of comics saviors of the world, linger on the mutinous breast of a platinum star, consecrate the unprecedented reign of the radiant and accessorized housewife, set up the until then ordinary one in delectable popular pop soup, symbol of the man of the clubs, day and night. Amnesia at all costs installs and keeps the aesthetic at the center of life, feelings and body. Among the emblematic themes of these post-war builders, the heart, icon of glamour, charm, sex, spite and essential intrigues, far from being put on the back burner, occupies the major place and invades the new media revealing a recovered freedom. Cimaise of today, pulsating of Paris, vibrating of energy and enthusiasm, sensitive and generous passionate conscience, do you have heart? Masterfully orchestrated, Combas and Kijno, Ben, Dine, Haring, Monory, Seguí, Pavlos, Rancillac, Raynaud, Schlosser, Messac, Klasen, Liot, FC Sofia, Gilli, Emin, Erró, Hirst, De Saint Phalle and Warhol, vibrate brilliantly in chorus, giving rhythm to their virtuosic and intimate scores with a brilliant, powerful, unconditional and eternal song, the song of heart.
"Is this how men live and their kisses follow them...Agreement lost to heart, the humanoid was always bellicose". One day, while manipulating the amulets, he wanted to know for sure and discovered fire. Using silly lighters and rebellious wicks, he took a wild liking to it and, with all the embers at ease, quickly became a much better cook than before, not being so often sick at heart. With a heart of steel, he was also once again equipped with all terrain, touching the heart of an army of pedestrian, marine and even amphibious monsters that he did not carry in his heart. These heartless creatures were all more voracious devourers of races than the others. One had to have a good heart to get close to them. Good-heartedly and righting his wrongs, he walked upright on two legs and occupied most of his free time in the heart of the painting, sculpture and macramé workshop of a rascal named Lascaux, grotesque ancestor of our current gallery owners and assimilated art traders. With an open heart, he sometimes philosophized on the meaning of life, which gave him back his heart and the heart squeezed, evoked the cute fangs of his Cro-magnon progenitors that he had loved so much. A changeable heart, he would suddenly become inflamed with excessive feelings, taking it to heart to honor such and such a bride on a whim, which then earned him the reputation of being heartless, or to celebrate such and such a god with prayers learned by heart. Making against bad luck good heart, he clutched on his fat heart the still tepid remains of a prehistoric pet that he had to sacrifice one evening of bad luck to the game of chance of the dîne au lot, against an ace of heart. Opening his heart, he let the hours, then the days and the centuries go by, naively descending from the tree to find himself one day without glory in the middle of a battlefield full of sickening furrows. "The sky was gray with clouds, wild geese flew in, screaming death as they passed..." Precisely in these times, absurd bayonets pierce the quietude of the cold mornings of interminable winters, body to body with open hearts sucking and pushing back, blood donors of the field of honor, dust and nerves of wars to the orders of waves stars, stars of disaster, sacred sons of sacrifice, saboteurs of souls to sellers of weapons. Any reconstruction of a devastated universe generates an obsessive ideology of the never again and the new. The existence and the joy associated to an unbridled need of consumption rhythm at once a frantic resurrection, vox populi of a gluttonous and enjoying sphinx sweeping in front of the door of the rise, the still smoldering ashes of the dreary seasons occured of violent death. Man can do better. No more truncated debates, calculations, horrors and political will, some of them then massively display a new era of enjoyment and leisure, one yours is better than two you may never have it... They carry high muscular heroes of comics saviors of the world, linger on the mutinous breast of a platinum star, consecrate the unprecedented reign of the radiant and accessorized housewife, set up the until then ordinary one in delectable popular pop soup, symbol of the man of the clubs, day and night. Amnesia at all costs installs and keeps the aesthetic at the center of life, feelings and body. Among the emblematic themes of these post-war builders, the heart, icon of glamour, charm, sex, spite and essential intrigues, far from being put on the back burner, occupies the major place and invades the new media revealing a recovered freedom. Cimaise of today, pulsating of Paris, vibrating of energy and enthusiasm, sensitive and generous passionate conscience, do you have heart? Masterfully orchestrated, Combas and Kijno, Ben, Dine, Haring, Monory, Seguí, Pavlos, Rancillac, Raynaud, Schlosser, Messac, Klasen, Liot, FC Sofia, Gilli, Emin, Erró, Hirst, De Saint Phalle and Warhol, vibrate brilliantly in chorus, giving rhythm to their virtuosic and intimate scores with a brilliant, powerful, unconditional and eternal song, the song of heart.
