« Don’t dream ».
I will never let anyone tell me that sentence once again.
This is the promise I made to myself at the age of 10, little girl from a modest family of the modest suburban countryside of Paris where the sense of modesty forbids the idea of successful achievements.
If being rational means this boring unexciting normality, I will be irrational. If nothing is possible, I will work hard with the impossible. If my destiny was a life of labour, my labour will be at least poetic.
I will waste my time, waste my money and waste my energy in useless activities. I will not be efficient. I will not be productive. And I will never ever hope for result.
All this may sound absurd. Dramatically absurd. As absurd as Sysiphus’ mythological life, the symbol of the human condition according to Albert Camus. The artist’s condition according to Joseph Beuys. The woman artist’s condition according to me.