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The archer

Modifié le : 2019/07/27

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.

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