Traces of a future that will not take place
Everything is superimposed. Our history and all the history of art, images and sculptures that haunt the absence of peoples.
This story, then, of lovers forever separated. I had long thought that the truth of love was in separation: if one loves to the extreme point of this moment it is that in retrospect one loved, because one loves only beyond his personal interest and that at the end of strength. So we never leave those we loved. They come to haunt each of our seconds, the inspiration and the expiration of these spectra. But I was probably wrong because we separated in indifference: I could be there, not be there, alive or dead, it didn’t seem to affect you because your great question, the one that will pursue you all your life, is not the other. You told me about your misfortunes, rarely ours. I don’t blame you, but it was our difference, I was without stake, you never suffered from what happened to me while I never stopped feeling sad in front of your misadventures. I come to detach what we have experienced from all that precedes and all that will follow. I also come to separate us in our memory. We were always separated despite everything we shared and that infinite distance was our love. The separation didn’t happen because we never met.
I thought that the work of art, supposing that such a concept could even exist, should be of this order, leave traces of a future that will never take place, not to realize it, but as if we had come too late and that no witness could testify to what had taken place. The aftermath of a trace that persists in the amortized echo of history.
I have been looking at Max Ernst’s Europe after the rain since I was 8 years old. This world did not take place, yet it describes the post-war period, the destruction freezing the rubble in its minerality. Earth is still roaring like the possibility of the world, but it hasn’t happened. She gives it away and we see nothing.
These events that do not take place constitute the History, the smell of an era, what haunts our imagination and what we keep. The news is his exact opposite. It is given immense importance, but it has none, while the non-existent phenomena that are not even forgotten will constitute the traces of a future forever suspended and as if crossed out.
The human being did not take place. We have no existence. We exist irresolutely.
This future that will not take place is not a project that would have failed and that would replay the great emancipating mythologies and their procession of disappointments. The future is not in its proper noun, but in the verb:
In my studio, I write, I draw, I form one of those futures that will never happen. So it’s not a dream. It is not even something I would like to achieve. It’s not virtual. We thought it was a draft but that was what it was all about and nothing else. The nonexistent as the most precious. The infinite nostalgia of art is not turned towards the past, it announces the ruins.