Sometimes your journal needs to get informed that it's no longer new year's eve.

Every one who wrote a really nice thing about my last post, thank you, I apologize for not replying yet, I owe you, and ought to make up for that.

I'm a pending man. Still hovering.

After the excesses of new year's eve that ended long after daylight, much too much wine and few hours of sleep, I got my steps lost in the streets of Bordeaux.
I've shown so much will during the past months making my insides clean, washing away the old crap, the wrong feelings, the wrong friends, sometimes.
The first evening of a new year, makes it look grand, epic almost. Sparkles of city lights reflects in happy people's eyes. I've pushed the volume to the maximum to play some Mozart in the earphones, and walk calmly, empty as new. Looking up the sky has the perfection of deep dark blue and dry cold, and I encounter the gaze of the statues that have been standing here, watching over us for longer than my ancestors can recall. I stay with them a little, a pencil and a piece of paper _ this is how them and I use to communicate at times.
There is so much beauty up there, and my heart, it beats wide open. Beauty enters in me like a shiver flood, fills every bit to the point of tickling the lacrimal pinholes.
Make no mistake. It is no sadness, but the very joy of being living and free.


To my friends, to every artist, to you who randomly stopped by, to those who sometimes feel the urge to thank me for they didn't know their heart too, was wide open, I'd like to send my modest wishes.
I'm sorry I didn't reply to your notes often enough. I'm much more lonely, it's true. But I think I've grown into a better man.

May you make several steps toward your inner balance.
May you find out your angel, and cope with your beast.
May you give a little love for yourself, and manage to give tons of it to others.
May you create with inspiration and sincerity. Though this, should run smoothly after the three first wishes.


- Michaël

This is a little thing that came to my thoughts last week as I was walking at night through the city. It turned into a little poem, with a not-so innocent significance.




Sweetness of air; this is an october so mellow
Summer lazying some more, its pigments of warmth filling
with indolence the silent evening where I stroll.

There's a distant past and a future faraway
and a place somewhere in-between
in which to let our steps go.

Lonely spots of colored glimmer stray
from the funfair nearby.
Remains of forced fun, they are sad in their on way
I sweep the plane tree leaves from the tip of my toe,
Questioning the patterns of carmine and yellow.
_Carpets for wanderers, oceans for dreamers
do you know, do you know?
is there a star to long for
when only memories I herded.


Footsteps make no sound at all, wind with the trees doesn't play
Weightlessness resemble being here
having all the time in the world
A cliff at your feet and a step you don't fear

Repose your lids and fall away
The air of seagulls' yells and tide spray
echoes indistinct splashes of laughter
That sound belongs to a forgotten past.
Clouds bright and fast, waves suspended and a lively shiver
it suddenly comes clear
It's the sound of your own childhood.

I sweep the plane tree leaves from the tip of my toe,
Questioning the patterns of carmine and yellow.
_Carpets for wanderers, oceans for dreamers
do you know, do you know?
is there a little being to come,
within my palm to hold?

Hi there!

I've been alerted by a cool deviant about someone selling iphone skins on ebay ( here's the bad guy )

After some talking with the seller, I was given the website of the manufacturer, pacers.cn.
Nice galleries in there, or there.
Let's play a game: find out whose DA artist each one belongs ( that's easy ). Next, find an artist who gave his actual authorization. ( harder, huh ? )

Well, I don't know what actions can be taken really; i just politely sent an email (pacerscp@163.com) asking for product removal.
We won't that easily get rid of that crap, but pass the word was something I thought I could do. Let's stay vigilant.

Hope you're all good, cheeeeers !

** Edit **
After a bit of struggle it looks like a happy ending.
The eBay reseller was cooperative when I asked him to remove my item. When I saw there were too many stolen images, I decided I should rely on eBay's copyright authorities to make the action more formal. There's a bit of protocol there, but they have been efficient eventually. The reseller seems a little bit angry at my action, but screw him.
The chinese manufacturer has also removed the items I asked him, but I had to ask for each one that had been recognized. I mean he didn't remove the stolen art by himself, which lets us assume there are still stolen pictures in his store. No one can verify his backoffice business anyway.
All in all this is works from *ssilence, *AquaSixio, `Wen-M, *AyameFataru, ~evol1314, `Artgerm that were sold and have been removed. And if you look at the remains of the sellers' galleries, the images they sell are now quite uninteresting !

Of course this kind of robbery will continue to happen on and on ( and it's not that sword of Damocles called Orphan Works Bill that will make it easier for the artists) and it's ours to fight it as much as we can just to keep the scene sane. True it's time consuming, and there's not much to get in payback...
Bigger watermarks, VeRO program on eBay when needed, and a great community effort will do it good. Thanks to every one who helped. Fare thee well fellow deviants !

Hello deviant people,
Such a long time it's been,hasn't it ?
I was never that far, checking the community's art every day or so, either hiding or busy or just ... shy. I would have many thoughts and stories to write down here, of those that occurred between last autumn and now _ half a year, so to say_ but there would be no much use, and such a heavy task that I'd better give up before even starting.

Instead I'd rather tell you about this simple sunday that I just went through, now that I finally sit down, a steaming herb tea on my left side, dressed in tee-shirt and white, comfy linen pants, bare feet, with the spring air coming from the backyard's garden, rather fresh onto my naked arm. The chant of sparse, but heavy raindrops falling down on various types of lush has just begun, giving me company. I only arrived a few minutes ago and I suppose the three of my roommates were already asleep in the silent house upstairs. The smell is that of the freshly cut grass whose chlorophyl gets powerfully spread by rain into the air.
Everyone agrees that it was the first weekend of spring. We've seen bare shoulders, pinky sunburns, mini dresses and smiling faces in endless amounts.
Waking up at eleven wasn't this lazy a morning considering how late I went to bed: it was about six, the time needed to get emotionally brutalized by a girl, to gather with friends and talk about art needs, work out my last painting's scan, write two blog entries and a poem, then drive back home.
They all had forecasted a rainy day so it came as a nice surprise when pulling up the blinds. Moreover it seemed that the first try at this new pillow that I offered myself yesterday wiped out the bad headache I never miss to catch when waking up late. Moments after, as I was sitting across the backyard door, expelling for good my heartache worries in lovely-shaped words, sipping coffee while my perfumed laundry of white shirts was luminously drying into the sun, I thought that all in all, this was how a sunday with no expectations turns out into a delightful mix of lively blends.
Once my thoughts poured on the paper and since the sun was determined to continue its bright trick I stuffed my bag with various sketchbooks and walked to the tram station, a warm coat across my arm _ fools! I see all you in tees. You never know how chilly an April night can turn out when you come back late _
Early afternoon, the tram brought me all the way long throughout the city, but I got out halfway my usual itinerary at the Pey Berland square. I had quickly sketched the outlines of the cathedral a few weeks ago and I was feeling like I could narrow down this doodle. Instead of the front view I picked up a slightly shifted viewpoint that had the enormous advantage to be on the sunlit terrasse of a café whose waiter kindly offered me (well, that's my journal, I can make my innermost phantasms come real if I want it) a glass of white Entre-deux-mers wine. The large pedestrianized square was nearly desert, and the giant stone model offered to my sole view for getting painted while I was sipping my fresh glass. Do I need to explain you more in-depth how perfect the moment was?

I used 3 different shades of grey of the Tombow pencils to define the values, and a thin graphite mine to trace the small details. The endless amount of intricacy that the cathedral had to offere could keep me busy for hours. In particular, the large rosace sustained my application for a while, since I had to paint its patterns in negative space. I can prove all the patience in the world when it comes to doing such a work while the conditions are as great as they actually were.
On a table close to mine a french girl speaking the most perfect english was chatting with a guy, apparently from Houston as I happened to catch, about the life in Bordeaux, the weird habits of french people, her perception of relationships and other generalities or tidbits. Her voice was adorable and I couldn't help but feel at ease within the sound of her joyful storytelling, despite the vaguely distinguishable meaning of her conversation. It reminded me in some ways of Richard Linklater's movie Before Sunrise, that I absolutely adore _ a masterpiece of romantic cheerfulness _.
At one point a group of loud speaking persons intercalated between my table and Julie Delpy's, plus my glass was dry and the sun was veiled.
It felt striking to observe how fast the changing weather implied a change in the crowd's behaviour. A perceptible nervousness started to animate the pedestrians passing by, and in a matter of minutes some darker clouds had gathered in the sky, the wind had intensified its blowing, filling the air with a sort of madness.
As I was walking away from the cathedral's protective gaze, I noticed how relaxed and attentive to details the drawing had made me, like if I was able to perceive another dimension of people and things. Every stone, every ivy leaf was popping up in my vision like thousands of individual candidates to being portrayed. People as well could be discerned with intriguing clarity. I could see their lips move, the expressions folding their wrinkles, the directions of their look, in slow motion and macro lens.
I saw luxuriant backyards that I had never noticed. I saw statues hiding in old vines, and the sky promising to burst in raindrops in a minute or so, and the buoyant sensation in my lungs was intensifying its presence.
This is how I walked the five remaining tram stations until the Chartrons quartier where my office lies.
Behind the wooden door the shadow was fresh _ a little too fresh for the season to say the truth_ and it was also vast and empty.
That place. Since we moved in by the end of february, none of us had found the courage to handle any of the small repair tasks that were left to do. The remembrance of 3 full months of revamping slavery was still fresh in our minds. Every evening after a hard working day until past midnight, every weekend was wholly devoted to working out the walls of our studio, doing carpentry, plaster, paint, breathing dust and dreaming of moving in.
Everything was so endlessly worth the effort eventually. Julien and I had envisaged this place years ago, right in the very neighborhood we liked the most in the city we loved to be. Then Natalie joined us and cheered up the trio with her inexhaustible energy.
That place. Sometimes when evening comes and everybody has gone, I put on some ethereal music to echo under the high stone vaults, spread some colors on my palette and paint. The space is inspiring, old and lonely. When it gets too lonely I can simply pass the door and wander a few minutes along the river walk, to get filled with more space, more air, more freedom and inspiration.
It's the first time in my life that I manage to joint my job and my painting needs, I think to myself while spreading some plaster onto the mezzanine's ground. I, most probably, will remain overworked all the time, but I should never feel unfulfilled.
One hour of plastering the ground didn't calm me and instead I felt the urge to increase that quest for effort. It was a nice afternoon after all. The setup was quite simple: earphones spreading some sounds and those little wheels under my feet. When the ipod displayed the long artists' list in alphabetical order, my look felt on this 4 letter-long-acronym-named swedish band who had a immense success back in the disco days. I probably hadn't played this album for about a zillion years, but remembered how much I liked them as a youngster ( the girls' voices were making me fantasize a lot back then). Dancing Queen they sang, as my feet started to push, the kitsch sound fitting my moves perfectly.
I'm a bird. But I cannot fly ... I'm a bird now. I almost am, with the wind onto my face, each pressure of my leg making my run faster. The muscles bend, the chest opens and I accelerate more. When it gets fast enough you don't feel the road bumps no more; you're abroad an unstoppable race towards forward. Mouth widens to get more oxygen, its ignition hurts and makes you feel how alive you are.

I accelerate again on the ramp climbing the famous Pont de Pierre, shiver in the humid wind blown at its top, continue to push with extended fury. Your brain gets clearer while your blood boils, while your muscles suffer.
It's often in those moments that some poetic words come to my mind. There's a storm all around and the thinking stands still, superbly focused.
Loving is such an irresponsible experience. Oppositely, being loved gives you a certain responsibility; there's not much wondering why you flee the ones who like you when you're generally so afraid of loosing your freedom.
The Avenue Thiers is straight and long, and I keep riding all the way until the beginning of the road to the hill, limit of the city. Far enough to do the u-turn and start running back. I have the legs of a robot, getting stiffer at each move, while my face becomes distorted in a grimace of pain, but I don't slow down. The never-ending slope of the bridge, the road alongside the river, longer than ever. I hope it stops soon, I hope it more and more, but I also, disturbingly, enjoy the feeling of my lungs yelling and by body explode.
In front of the very stairs from which I had started my run, the overused iPod's battery ceased to power ABBA's cheesy "I had a dream" just one picosecond after I braked toughly. That coincidence was immense but I almost considered this behavior as perfectly natural, probably the sign of an excessive separation of body and mind that had occurred during the run.
For half an hour I laid on the concrete trying to recover my breath. A little girl cried because her dad refused to let her play with my very orange skates hanging across the low wall.
Back to the office I tidied everything, washed the ground, but the exhaustion wouldn't want to come.
It was late in the evening already when I took the tram. The crowd of stupid and arrogant youngsters couldn't disturb me the slightest bit, because I had my sketchbook and a cathedral drawing to wander a relaxed pen onto. Seven minutes of walk and finally I'm there.
And you had enough of my boring babbling.

Cheers everyone !

<sub>+ xoxoxo kikoolol
+ hope you'll enjoy my last painting</sub>