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You are only dust amidst dust. You are only just visible even if you gesticulate, even if you make a commotion, even if you speak loud and clearly: you act in a silent film. Or rather: one hears nothing that you would like because of the racket, and havoc. “That’s no excuse!”, you tell yourself. So you make an effort. You take your time, settle in, present yourself as in an unwanted theatre and you do what you can to block out the din, the infernal film.
You will end by stopping me, addressing me (as they say), not necessarily in a flashy, noisy or hurt way, no, on the contrary, with calm, in a gentle way, hazily, caressed, chiselled, but especially – the chattering now ended – with intensity, weight, complete and synthetic. You are going to tell me in a single image, set up, disguised, fabricated if necessary, the whole story of the man and the woman.
You are going to paint me a story of sadness, of pain, and sometimes of joy so close and so simple, of its forgeries. You have not come to make me laugh, that’s what make you great, but to tell me: “We are here! We exist!”