More faithful than dogs, more fearsome than the plague, bearer of our joys and misfortunes, the silent reflection of our existence, our national identity, our food ration card and the map of our beloved homeland, the paper ! The coarse paper on which one prints the laws, the royal decrees and the banknotes. The fine paper used to wipe our tears and our ass.
“Papers I hate you! “
Migrants mean trips. Travels mean borders. Borders mean papers or lack of papers according to … everyone and his luck. I remember a little Russian ditty on a little chick:
The little chick cooked and fried
The little chick wanted to live too
He got caught
He got arrested
He was asked to show his papers
No money !
“Citizens your papers! “
This sentence terrified us all, but especially my mother! (What a coincidence for soon after she worked on sorting old rags for a Soviet Union paper mill).
I remember, we were taken off the train to Krasnodar because we were missing some papers. The undocumented !, It still exists.
This time, I have my papers. They are in good standing.
At 14 I was able to do my first engraving on zinc.
There I began to realize the importance of paper, but it took me a very long journey thriygh time to truly discover the paper and all its splendor.
The paper matrix and surface of my identity. Between the lines of used notebooks where we wrote our homework and the wonders of the “Lamali” shop in Paris (magical meeting of the most beautiful papers in the world) more than half a century ago.
It has become my favorite medium even in painting. It is as beautiful poetically and in any case inseparable from the images it carries.
Yes, paper fascinates me!