When I was born, I was thirty years old.
I learned youth late and by correspondence.
My excuse: I grew up stuck between a mother whose softness would make daisies pale by comparison and a father whose temper was as stable as the one of an arena bull.
The result: I killed in myself the idea of the world. I shot myself away in my room to read French literature classics with, on my lips, the smile of a bomb layer.
I had the morality of Camus’ Outsider and the hope in life of a Nirvana song. I laid down in the field waiting to be decomposed.
Failed: I was still alive.
One day, two teachers noticed me and introduced me to art.
It was a revelation.
To paint. At last I could be. Pure fantasy. Incidentally, it appeared that I was gay.
Since then, I practice regularly. I even corrupted into marriage one of those teachers whose rebellion I was fond of.
How mean I am!
Against all expectations, my paintings started to sell.
People snap up my textured faces. Ha! Ha!
Every day in the studio, along a big dog sleeping and a husband who makes his mandolin sing, I make my deliciously appalling images and I plan to continue for a very long time.
Ha! Ha! Ha!