Modifié le : 2016/09/16

For more than four years now, I have been ren­o­vat­ing, built beyond my bud­get, in a kind of qui­et and irreg­u­lar release. The result is there and, even if I don’t see the end of it yet, it sat­is­fies me. This apart­ment is grad­u­al­ly tak­ing on the char­ac­ter­is­tics of my per­son­al­i­ty : a sim­ple geom­e­try, some­what old-fash­ioned, focused on the mate­r­i­al. There is, above all, a desire for height. I get rid of old mold­ings, bulky plas­ters. In this sense, I am firm­ly modern.

Plan­ning is done at the whim of inspi­ra­tion, as if the plan escaped me, as if I were, in the end, only one ant among the busy oth­ers. I often think that what I build will sur­vive me. I read a sim­i­lar thought on Face­book yes­ter­day. One pub­lish­er always said that he pre­ferred the phys­i­cal con­tact of a book over its dig­i­tal equiv­a­lent. He added, with a hint of des­per­ate sad­ness, I think, that he want­ed to leave his son an inher­i­tance of all the books he had read, touched and skil­ful­ly stacked on his shelves.

We attach great impor­tance to objects, to what does not live, to the way of those peo­ples who wor­shipped their mum­mies or the relics of their ances­tors. In con­trast, Bud­dhist monks draw man­dalas on the ground with only rice or col­ored sand. Once the task is accom­plished, they make a few mantras, then destroy the work or leave it at the mer­cy of the wind.

The West­ern­er would at least have tak­en a pic­ture as a souvenir.

The tracks. They are essen­tial to the per­son who cre­ates them. I know, how­ev­er, that tomor­row I could leave the house I am build­ing. I have already heard the sto­ry of a man who, although he was mar­ried and was a father, insist­ed on keep­ing a suit­case by the door, ready to leave it all. His wife knew the con­tents, cleaned up around it. The man nev­er left this lady, and I can’t decide who was the most unhap­py, the one who said he want­ed to go or the one who was fight­ing to hope nothing.

Our dra­mas, inevitably, are played out around the pro­jec­tion into a future that will only belong to oth­er ants, and we still apply our­selves to the task for them. We obey the species, the uni­verse, our impuls­es engraved in our DNA as the solar winds were.

True, we should only keep one suit­case near us, the one that con­tains the seeds of our future, and laugh at us before we put down the next brick.