The French artist, actor, photographer and performer Emmanuel Barrouyer addresses these contemporary issues of gender and identity, in his work. He most often uses himself in various staged self portraits, where it appears as if he is himself, but the ambiguity of self and identity are always close by, so that portraits of Emmanuel are often not portraits at all. Emmanuel's artwork dealing with gender and identity started off in 2013 when he began to impersonate female friends, as in the pieces As Julie, and Boy's Legs. This gave him the impetus to start exploring who we are, and more importantly, who others see us as. How do others identify us? Is it real, or is it delusional. Does it help liberate us, or does it increasingly imprison us?In his Statufié! series of 2016, Emmanuel digitally encased himself within classical sculpture, playing with nudity of flesh and stone, sliding scales of interpretation and understanding. Was he producing self portraits of flesh or stone, statued men, or embodied statues? In his 2015 series U'ReInALonelySituation, Emmanuel explored desire and identity by connecting bathroom graffiti with classical sculpture. Another sliding scale of need and desire in the written scrawls on a bathroom wall, and the disconnected and remote signature of the classical statue. Desire sits within the genitals, just as it sits within the words on the bathroom wall. http://www.emmanuelbarrouyerart.com/
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"Elle danse Saoulée de désir Dans le bar floue Devant les yeux ballonnés des buveurs Qui fendent des ballets de gaz !" Invocation Réminiscences humides Irriguent à l’agonie du miel Trempe les chaires Un autre calendrier dans l’âme Saisissant la puissance des sens Egorgeant parfois la raison Qu’importe la fenêtre du paysage ! Gaelle Elle ne marche pas Elle glisse comme de l’eau Une douceur de pétale sur le visage Dans les gestes, l’étonnement d’une jeune bête Les yeux embués de mystère Impression de sacré Force nue épurée Le regard lointain D’une île L’évangile selon sainte tania Elle danse Saoulée de désir Dans le bar floue Devant les yeux ballonnés des buveurs Qui fendent des ballets de gaz ! Des pantins pour demain Elle effleure les fantômes Fumant les chants Bénissant le bar D’ondulations de lunes A divaguer, s’évaguer. Puis au matin s’astrabule, foliote A la dérive flottante Aux caresses d’un amant de passage. Messager de faiblesse et d’éclisse Vivre, voyager, courir, douter, reprendre Même si épuisé Même si difficile S’étourdir Se prendre pour un cheval fou Reniflant la chatte d’une jeune fille de passage Lettre Elle cherche des bittes énormes Des équipages pour son gouffre Des spéléos, léos, dadas, gourdins, courgins Mais elle est mon amie Un cœur tendre, Un cœur tendre La noblesse sans gouvernail Laé Elle libérait mon enfance Convulsée sur mon histoire Ses cordes frottaient mon âme Loin de la messe des rats Galopant Dans la beauté du drame Dansant éjectés de la camisole Sur le fumier du monde Traversant gouffres et fortunes Fleure éclatée sous mes aspirations Ses yeux fermés attrapent la vie Oublient le rôle ? ? ? est-ce que ma flûte résonne au loin rythmant sa jupe et son souffle ? ? ? Journal d’un loup de bar Bar, lustre, paroles à gogo Braguette décousue Chatte au balcon Musique bla, bla, bla Nichons, jarretelles Elles nous rendent .... ! ! ! ! Pourquoi ? ! Quelle heure est-il ? Bouffes au lance pierre Crépuscule vaporeux Enfumé, délire, argent, je note ? Qui conduit ? Qui baise qui ? je t’aime A boire ? ? ? ? ? Qui baisera qui ? ? ? Et demain ? ? ? Qui baisera qui ? ? ? et et e t .... "Gabor, the Hungarian prophet and madman. The mad Hungarian. The silly foreigner. A repulsive asshole. A gentleman. A seductive animal. The rude foreigner. A reckless dude. This guy is brutally honest, one might kill him sooner or later, probably sooner. He writes like shit. His accent drives me nuts. He has a smooth voice unless he is with someone else. A poet kind with a vivid vocabulary for no use." mirage leaning away from the lectern she watches still he can’t see what is before her her mother buried the navel cord next to the only tree in the courtyard to keep her daughter at bay on her weather and sun beaten skin the wind takes a break in the empty mile wide space in the raw air blameless fog-clouds enshroud her skyscraper solitude in the cave deep silence his may-fly long life disperses in the mist if she could she would scatter sand to the eyes of the thousand tongued wind she stays alive as long as she laughs amidst the crowd What’s me? Me is that which want to be amazed without natural cessation, in an eternity of ecstasy. Rules? Laws? To me, what? I am free to want what I want. I want uninterrupted rapture. I believe this has been made manifest to me in dreams, and in music, and in the pages of Dostoevsky, in the lines of Shakespeare, in sexual joy, in drunkenness, in being high on tea. Why should I compromise with anything else or with the “Bourgeois” calm of the backyard lawn, The Edgar Guest concession wild, wild happiness. On tea I have seen the light. In my youth I saw the light. In my childhood I bathed in the hints of light; I hankered, eager. I want a blaze of light to flame in me forever in a timeless, dear love of everything. And why should I pretend to want anything else?After all, I’m no cabbage, no carrot, no stem! a burning eye! a mind of fire! a broken goldenrod! a man! a woman! a SOUL! Fuck the rest, I say, and PROCEED! (This is what I want to write, not stylistic crap!) JACK KEROUAC, in Windblown World, the Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947-1954 * previously posted on https://tsunamibooks.jimdo.com/2013/08/20/the-ecstasy-of-jack-kerouac/ "Dean’s intelligence was every bit as formal and shining and complete, without the tedious intellectualness. And his «criminality» was not something that sulked and sneered; it was a wild yeasaying overburst of American joy; it was Western, the west wind, an ode from the Plains, something new, long prophesied, long a-coming (he only stole cars for joy rides). Besides, all my New York friends were in the negative, nightmare position of putting down society and giving their tired bookish or political or psychoanalytical reasons, but Dean just raced in society, eager for bread and love; he didn’t care one way or the other, «so long’s I can get that lil ole gal with that lil sumpin down there tween her legs, boy,» and «so long’s we can eat, son, y’ear me? I’m hungry, I’m starving, let’s eat right now!» - and off we’d rush to eat, whereof, as saith Ecclesiastes, «It is your portion under the sun.» A western kinsman of the sun, Dean." JACK KEROUAC, On the Road Full of Shunyata There’s no place to go You are there Natural abiding Unlimited freedom Absolute joyful Samodie Relative and Absolute Mind Are One Do not search for Nirvana You are sitting in it BOB BRANAMAN "He’s part of every era, stretching his groin towards the naked faces of teenage girls for centuries to demonstrate a different version of GOD." Paris and Jim Morrison (10/12/2017) My mind is a silent one, I like to drop my thoughts through pen. Like the Lizard King and then he’d sing. I, 27 years of age, walk through the streets of Paris reading Jim’s ghost as a roadmap. And yet, I never really knew where he lived, a reptile on a golden street. I wanna turn 28 and report back, tell him that we’ve cracked the code to our confusion, that we don’t need a revolution, just indulge in more illusion, to make this space more habitable. There’s no point to mourn about losing our son. He set his path in stone, now the whole world is on the run. The rain apocalyptic, the scenery cryptic, Jim’s spirit rhythmic in translating the energy of all the people screaming ‘WHY’. Never quite died. Re-runs through the questions of light, waiting for the sun at night, our son’s surrounded by the earth of Pere Lachaise, offered his flesh for school groups to take pictures. The place where he rests, much quieter than a Shaman’s death. Much smaller than a stage and the crowds surrounding it more humble in appearance. I hear his name in ancient flute sounds, on the aristocratic grounds of French history books, on the refugee camps of Canal St. Martin, floating through the memories of a town both he and I considered poetic. He’s part of every era, stretching his groin towards the naked faces of teenage girls for centuries to demonstrate a different version of GOD. I mapped his flag on my teenage girl room door, where his hair curled into my dreams of one day making Paris mine. So I did, but not in time to capture his essence through anything but nostalgia, copied his ways through rumour, engaged in his final age which never ends and planned on going further. Jim, what do I do when I turn older than you? My poorly developed teenage soul tears me back to days when my eyelids closed to roll my sight back in time and have you light the road outside my door, ready for departure. Ready for more. To me you’re always older, a tap on the shoulder to reassure my measure of growing is well within frame. But it’s you who evidently skipped so many beats on my behalf, leaving me to live and age in peace and never twist the image of you as a teacher. SARAH HELENA FALL of an EMPIRE and now the preamble to the fall of an empire hear the foundations crumbling as we speak in the cafes on the war on terror and global warming escalated fears of suicide bombers swarming and now the preamble to the fall of an empire one evening stand at the window and you will see your life both sinking and rising on the horizon before you there are many behind you there are many still who disappear into the thin line they have drawn for themselves worlds are created without and within they grow like leaves or words or the quiet hours whose roots reach deep and wide whose meaning may not be understood for generations to come one evening stand on the sky and dare to paint your world without a wooden frame then climb into the painting Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few. After his death, it was his friend the late great Kathleen Raine who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish. Although her manuscript was orphaned upon “Tambi” s passing, her poems and correspondence have been included in his Special Collections at Northwestern University. A former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion and devotee of Spoken Word, she has read and performed at various venues including S.F.’s renowned Purple Onion and The Intersection for the Arts. Her sold-out one-woman show Where the Blue Begins was presented in conjunction with Sonoma’s performing art series Women on the Edge. More recently she was a featured poet with Helene Cardona and John High at Poets Live, presented her work at Shakespeare & Company, participated in five présentations hosted by Three Rooms Press as well as performed at 100 Thousand Poets for Change here in Paris. Klimenko’s works are widely published in journals and anthologies–among them: XXI Century World Literature (in which she represents France) The Poet”s Quest for God, CounterPunch, The Original Van Gogh’s Ear Anthology, The Rumpus, Writing for Peace, Big Bridge, Levure Litteraire, Iodine Poetry Journal, Literary Orphans, Danse Macabre Anthology,The Opiate, Strangers in Paris, Paris Lit Up, Vox Populi, Occupy Poetry (in which she is distinguished as an American Poet) and Maintenant: Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C and in New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the Writer/ Poet in Residence for SpokenWord Paris. BITE ME BITCH I have a thing about biting Biting people to stay alive Biting made the little boys cry I masticate on red meat This we enter is our pact Bite me Bitch Go to a pocket of flesh Tongue me like a knife Wet me down, cut me up Take me to the razor edge Incise me with your fangs I will come like a free verb Bite me bitch Plunge into my neck Dive deep and sink Pierce my thigh with your sharpened nail Each cut an article of faith Bite me Bitch I'll take you by your knotted hair Your excited limbs flail wildly Like two hungry canines Stalking for the blood We howl, we fill the empty night Bite me Bitch * 5 AM Laid in a pocket between darkness and dawn, City shit and lipstick mate salty sweat on the cushion you rest your head upon at her place she hands you a broken cigarette you light off the burner of the the stove. It's 5 a m over boulevard Magenta in a tree across the rue pigeons squawk at two crows fighting like cats and dogs a rat drags away a pizza with pepperoni dropped on the sidewalk wetted red in wino piss when a woman steps by in shoes that kill I would follow her in a New York minute just to kiss her breathless lips and walk beside her, so shapely as I've ever cast eyes upon. Ca vas cheri, she asks and I say oui babe play les Fouiles Mortes and we surrender our carnal knowledge, put asleep to the hiss of the number 9 metro. (Moe Seager, from Moe Poems - A Paris Selection, Steel press, 2014) ONCE I drove across Texas for weeks. If I was to define Texas by a single image I’d say: an old man with a cowboy hat. Old cowboys are the saddest and most touching figures. (poem & photograph by WIM WENDERS) (Lointain intérieur) ENTRE CENTRE ET ABSENCE MA VIE S'ARRÊTA J'étais en plein océan. Nous voguions. Tout à coup le vent tomba. Alors l'océan démasqua sa grandeur, son interminable solitude. Henri MICHAUX "Pardon, je suis en retard, je viens de gamahucher ma mère." — (Charles Baudelaire, rapporté par les frères Goncourt dans leur Journal du 11 avril 1863) Photo: jeune Baudelaire, punk voyou aux cheveux verts. Daguerréotype de 1850. Collection M. Roue "If I write: it is important to keep writing, it is to keep me writing. It is as though I find myself on a new planet, without a map, and having everything to learn. I have unlearned. I have become a stranger." "My friends will know what I mean when I say that I deplore our contemporary industrial writers. Let them dedicate a year to pinball and think again." ALEXANDER TROCCHI, Cain's Book |
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May 2018
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