In a moment, a year’s worth of work will be played out in just 3 minutes. Backstage at the Atelier Lannaux, I’m trying to say it all in one thirtieth of a second.
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My image in this mirror hasn’t moved an inch. I am intact. The picture of Dorian Gray, that’s me opposite, in flesh and wrinkles, showing my years.
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In Liège, the Théâtre de la Place was closed down several months ago. Some artists have seized the venue and covertly brought it back to life, without permission or help.
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The tango is a sad thought that is danced, wrote Discepolo, the Argentinian poet. It’s also a nether world from which I had abducted a girl dancing as if she were willing to enter the ground.
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Since childhood, Hans Rudi Giger had been fascinated by ghost trains. Those trains in the funfairs that whisk you away through frightening worlds, brushing past supernatural creatures, crashing through doors revealing more unknown terrors.
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Nobody expected it. These were just qualifying laps, the day before a Grand Prix, and besides they were already finished, the drivers had all eased up on the gas pedal. Except one, Gilles Villeneuve.
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It was one afternoon at my parents’ house in Brussels. The sound of breaking glass startled us all. We searched the entire house to find out where it had come from, until we noticed in my mother’s study, this shattered picture frame.
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Back from a week on the ZAD, dirty, drained, exhausted from tramping down sodden paths and through swampy forests with a ton of photography equipment on my back and tripod on my arms.
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Such an astute connoisseur, the horse. He’s not only an expert in hay and flowery fields… this animal, it knows the secret confluence of scents is to be found in the nape of a girl’s neck.
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More airports, runways, flights, planes ; more concrete, roads, motorways, cars ; more manufacturing, consumption, growth, inflation ; more blowing into the same balloon, pumping it up, bigger and bigger, we’ll see how much.
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I spent the evening with a black sheriff, a butterfingered surgeon, an itchy guard from Buckingham, Spanish torture victims buried alive, a priapic Scotsman, a homicidal nurse, …
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From where does this truly extra Terrestrial come from? From a comic strip or a Sputnik? This erotic polymetallic doll has beamed herself out of the Grand Sablon in Brussels to better exhibit everything that transports her.
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No two have taken the same road. No two journeys are identical. No two motorcycles look alike. To each his own story. Every one different.
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Steinbeck, London, Capote, Bukowski, Yates, Fante, Crumley, Harrison… I know where my preference for American literature comes from. Its authors possess that authenticity born of orphans who have built themselves up on their own.
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Do you remember when, in primary school, the teacher would send you to go fetch something from the superintendent, and to this end you had the right to leave the classroom? And so you strolled around alone, there where you weren’t supposed to be.
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That morning, as I was walking out of the hotel, I immediately made an about-turn. My bag felt too heavy after just twenty steps. I got rid of almost everything.
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Summer nights in Parpaillon, my parents’ home in the south of France, were entrancing. René made us laugh ourselves to tears, his daughter Anne was delightfully mischievous and Gilberte, his wife, troubled the teenager I was with her Occitan beauty.
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Here’s another cliché pitched into the barriers. It’s not men’s level of testosterone that pushes them to want a sports car – it’s the other way around: driving a sports car increases the secretion of these male hormones.
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Behind the scenes snapshot taken during the making of the film Michel Vaillant. After having driven a stint at over 250 km an hour at Le Mans, a driver is supposed to be pouring sweat.
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What a beautiful French word baiser is. Un baiser means a kiss, and the verb baiser means to kiss but also to fuck. This can give rise to rare dialogues.
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