What can we tell us about a thread that takes place? The possibilities are endless and it is enough to face in front, this textile evidence to remember that text, metatexte or paratext are phonetic cousins. From there to invent a metafil or a suprafil, there is only one step or a knot to be made to which I will gladly succumb.
It is a bit out of break -in that I will try to plant my textual device in the plural textures of a textile exhibition. While a wire takes place, my text is untied and evolves over the random meanders.
This text is due to a thread and wanders from one fabric to another, from a haberdashery to a tailor shop, from the rattling of a singering sewing machine to the choreography of a craftsman-dancer in front of his millennial loom, a bright red chechia with a constelled arabesque carpet.
Would I be this thread of the pen which draws words on a molten fabric? Playing with unsecable or interrupted threads and thus find self -flashes and a little story of the wehaled tissue of urban.
A long transversal to grasp the happiness of the text/textiles. I am awaiting an exhibition which, in two days, will become my common thread. From an ephemeral artistic space, I will put my nouisons in the city. Like Bedouin talismans or melting confectionery.
Is it so absurd to want to tell the story of a thread or the fugue of a woolen ball? The text wants to be born and it tempts me as much as the song of a mermaid would do.
I have to weave this fable tomorrow. To hang on to this thread stretched by chance, follow it like a slightly haggard Theseus and see where it will take me.
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