Rag of a moment
Childhood is a kingdom where we can see the gods come to life and die.
Their figures are created within the fog of our identity.
Each day is a reign. Sometimes, the smell of a fruit, the voice of a father, the effigy of a myth, the hoarseness of a memory and the rough caress of a lament blend together.
In this kingdom, what we are is hidden within the reflection of what we believe we are. There is a friendship between the present world and the absent world of our illusions. We feed upon everything that we touch, capturing the words that are laid out in front of us, and that, when they are pronounced, are bundles of sticks that we throw on the pyre where our fears burn.
Later, during the reign of an adult day, we are the deceased monarchs of these celebrations where dead warriors would participate in the banquet, drinking a glass of blood mixed with earth, salt and ashes.
Later, during the reign of a timeless moment, we are stripped of everything, thirsting for stories that are reduced to puddles of water that don't quench our thirst.
La Mort d’Adam is one of the Threnodies where the child that quenches my thirst lives.
I am made of stories and an ocean separates me from myself.
La Mort d’Adam is the second Threnody of my Hypogeum.
A fantasised autobiography that aims to disappear by consuming itself.
A fable where we don't really know what is imagined and what is real.
A liberating gesture that subsumes inevitable contradictions, and grants them a poetic identity.
La Mort d’Adam is an additional subject that will enrich the fresco that I've been distributing for many years.
I am going to tell the story of my suitcase's island. The island that I'm not allowed to see.
At first, it will be the smell of the wet ground that hums in the cold atmosphere.
As a child, and after the rain had fallen, I was used to running out to pick up this humid humus. I would smear it on my torso, giggling. It was a magic shell, concealed under my shirt. With it, I could confront the magic of other worlds.
More specifically, through the life of a bull named Adam, I will tell the mythical tale of an event that helped create a feral aspect of my identity.
Jean Lambert-wild