Babahoum

His name is Babahoum. I like that name. In French, this name evokes the irresistible tumble. It is the chaotic origin of the world. Babahoum was born about thirty kilometers from the port of Essaouira, before the war, on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, in a village surrounded by argan trees. He was twenty when the Sultan obtained independence. Morocco is erected as a kingdom. He leaves the village. He flees agricultural work. He becomes a scrap dealer. Then it's the flea market. Later, he takes care of the olive press operated by a dromedary. (...) Babahoum was seventy when he began to paint. His sense of direction is innate, compelling, immediate, absolute. Babahoum fills the space with figures which do not touch each other, without shadow, posed farther and farther from each other, which radiate. No perspective assembles them or merges them. Everything is frontal, everything is balanced, everything is quiet, everything is silence. The goats are in the trees. The old men wave their canes towards the sky. The space is populated with donkeys, oases, ducks, wells, souks, weavers, carpets, palm trees, dark walls. Since 2014, Babahoum no longer speaks. He lives between the hospital and his son's house. (...) Pascal Quignard, writer.