Jean Noël Delalande

Not being very good at my skin, I often see myself similar to those fuzzy, flickering, contingent, improbable things, violently shaken by incoherence offal.

Perforated then with tenacious daze, like chasms with open legs. Some mutisms do not belong to me. The inextinguishable quest for a distant and marine genesis. A barrel, a block with legs. Old animals, stupid, silent in shelters in the meadows.

For kif paint in bulk.

Valor and some platitudes. Sometimes very populated, it swarms rather in the right direction, a clan maintained towards the successful. Tearing myself away from the astonishing common dialogue, with delight. Until confinement.

I don't know exactly why the painting. It could have been nothingness or boredom, castagne or dominoes. Oh ! Not the dominoes! Oh no not the castagne! It's never just a shaky situation. All the same without great risk. So go the cowards. The struggle must be necessary. To paint. Not move, like a dog in front of its master. A few square meters barely under my feet when life is immense, the oceans so vast, my mind greatly overwhelmed. Just a little verticality, nailed to the spot, my retinas in search of requirement.

Like cows and their eyes.

I keep thinking. It doesn't get me anywhere. Sorry to walk around sedentary. Some maintained form of cowardice. I hardly like myself.

My life like you. Then that's it.

Jean Noël Delalande.