Divers
We Will Write You
Mercurie J. Pin est une artiste écrivain qui propose d'écrire à la demande de petites histoires à partir de quelques indications (www.narrativelife.org).
Installée à Venise en face des jardins de la biennale, avec sa machine à écrire et son grand chapeau, voici les éléments que nous lui avons donnés : prose (Genre), existentiel (Style), Eric C. psychiatre (Personnage principal) , Paris (Où), Epoque actuelle (Quand), Devenir un artiste (thème). Voici son texte :
The Story of myself and Eric C.
Ou : La pensée du dehors
I used to meet him every thursday, at three. Boulevard
Beaumarchais 56, près de la Bastille.
His room was a rectangle, with a bowindow, on a courtyard.
Inside the courtyard a big tree enclosed by a wall with ivy
on it, an old red and yellow ivy.
From my chair I could see only his body, his face in
counterlight, and the window always open.
In fact I was not seeing him, but over his eyes, over his
laughter, over his crossed legs, I saw only the outside, the
air, the tree, the red and yellow ivy. And I was thinking
outside, la pensée du dehors, this was my problem.
My peace was there, beyond all words. How much myself, how
much myself, it was enough, enough.
In that green mixing itself with the yellow, mixing itself
with the red, ending again in green – myself plant, myself
bird, shadow, flight, myself sun and waterfall, he was
listening to me. Not to my words, because I did not utter
one, but to my thoughts. He did not use to say anything, but
just looked at me, sometimes bursting into laughter.
I wanted to tell him about Venice, the water, and time.
About entering time as entering the rain, and getting out
wet, and more eternal. About an internal rhythm, and all the
sounds I heard. About the light, and its absence. He did not
say anything. He just looked at me. This time, though, he
asked (the first word said in a long time, because none of
us preferred to talk): vous croyez qu’il y a un mystère
là-dehors?
Mais, non, j’en sais pas (the words came out all of a
sudden, as if my thought had been pierced)
Parce-que, vous voyez, je crois qu’ il y a quelque chose
d’absent qui vous tourmente
Quelque chose d’absent qui me tourmente … !
Eric C., my psycoanalist, was an artist, of the most hidden
art: life.
To Eric C. and Mario Blaise, mercurie pin, venice june 2007