Vagabonds, 2025
Stéphane Foucaud

This captivating artwork is a bold and symbolically rich composition. At the top, a plant element adds an organic and dynamic dimension. The center is dominated by an arrangement of geometric shapes and varied images, including a fish motif and abstract forms. The colors, primarily shades of blue, red, and black, create a striking contrast, drawing the eye into a complex visual journey. Here is its story:

As a child, I felt like I'd known Jacquot the Toothless my whole life. During rush hour, we'd always find him faithfully stationed in front of the bakery. I was barely walking when I gave him my first coin. He used it immediately to buy food. One of the conditions Mom set for giving alms was that they couldn't be used to buy alcohol. I always wondered what our homeless man did the rest of the day.

When I was waiting for my mother, sometimes interrupted by the teasing of the neighborhood girls, baguettes in hand, I would take the opportunity to chat with this man who, like an oracle, would offer words that would later take on meaning throughout the day. "Observe!" "Who needs help?" "Who should we avoid today?" he would ask me, for example, as if posing a riddle. A true bond developed between us over the years. It was at the "leaks office," also known as the "eavesdropping squad," formed by the group of women gathered in front of the bakery, that we learned how this unfortunate man had become entangled in life on the streets. Apparently, it involved cannabis, as both a dealer and a heavy user.

Behind the piano keyboard that served as his smile lurked the fierce determination of a man ready to defend his territory. His spot, also prized by other homeless people, was bought with blood and ivory. In fact, Jacquot's mouth now boasted more sharps than octaves. It wasn't uncommon to find him with a swollen face, but always with a smile, after his rivals tried to dislodge him. Lately, I sensed he was weakened and worried by the increasingly imposing gangs of vagrants. In turn, I tried to offer him some advice, using the riddle method: "I can put my backpack there for a nap and a hot meal," I blurted out one day, without looking at him, to heighten the mystery. I was referring to this new downtown association, "Le sac à dos" (The Backpack), which welcomed the destitute, offered them dormitory beds and dinners.

Jacquot's good business aroused envy: exclusivity on wheat coming out of the oven, a urinal a few meters away (materialized by a space between two walls), the shower a stone's throw away (materialized by access to the garden hose in the back yard of the bakery) One day, I noticed he was gone. Had he gone to the shelter? To reassure myself, I remembered that he could suddenly disappear for months and reappear as if by magic, after making the rounds of his wild cassava fields. He had, in fact, cultivated his sloping cassava fields downstream from private land, his tubers thus benefiting from the extra watering of the plants upstream. After peeling them, Jacquot sold them on the black market to small shops. He also took the opportunity to secretly treat the chickens on the private properties for coryza (a type of cold) with his thyme infusions.

Through the car window, I sometimes caught a glimpse of him among a group of drunks, but I was careful not to mention it to Mom. This way, I prevented our homeless friend from losing our helping hand. His drunken "walk trip" often resulted in him losing a flip-flop, which allowed me to spot him from afar. Then one day, a young homeless man took his place, seemingly unaware that he was encroaching on someone's territory. This newcomer to the streets attracted two others, equally ignorant of the local customs. This cluster of homeless people acted like an illegal tollbooth in front of the store's entrance, deterring potential donors. These "professional beggars" operated like a gang: they stationed an accomplice at each store and divided up the loot at the end of the day.

I feared that Jacquot's return would deliver him into the hands of this trio, still in excellent shape, not too battered by their recent vagabond life. My apprehension was confirmed when, leaving the bakery and taking an unusual path back to our car, I stumbled upon a body curled up against a resident's fence. He was missing a flip-flop… As this elongated form didn't respond to his name being called, my mother delicately removed his blood-soaked hood to verify his identity. Suddenly, she covered my eyes with her hand: she would later confess that, overcoming the unbearable sight before her, she had indeed recognized the smile of our toothless man.

A few days later, we went to the hospital where he had been treated, knowing his true identity thanks to the "headquarters" (a recent nickname given to him by the husbands of my mother's neighborhood friends). Nepoyon Alexandre, known as Jacques, had vanished before his treatment was complete! But he had been caught by his adopted daughter, who had informants in the medical field. He ended up living a devout life in a remote village in the bush, where he maintained a small chapel. Reassured, I knew that I, too, would never fail to call on the bakery's "general information" service if a loved one went missing.