Writing and singing, singing, or writing. It’s all the same to me. I’m reviewing Les Mailles sanguines, learning a new melody. In both cases, it requires me to be meticulous, intense. My teacher keeps reminding me that singing is nothing more than letting go of the breath, not softly, but with the attitude of the archer who, when the conditions are right, releases the rope. The explosion occurs, the sound drowns the reality.
The objective is similar when it comes to writing and, by deformation or professional imitation, I have the feeling that I am continually stretching this rope, wanting to create all the conditions to untick, words, caresses, senses.
This is a dangerous and challenging exercise. If you wonder why some artists go crazy, it’s because they are, as these fragile minds, tense, ready for flight. Sometimes the bow breaks too much to propel the ego.
We are never humble enough, never be too cheeky. Drunkenness can only be experienced on the tightrope of adventure.
But, we’ll agree, we still have to define all that. The emotional, cerebral villain that I am.