Nocturnes

“Stormheart. Or maybe it’s an airplane engine, a battlefield under assault.
Clicking heels, fidgeting steps in the dark. Or maybe it’s drumbeats.
Nocturnes like those of Chopin. Maybe, but then without a piano. The eye and the ear link together, in implacable rigor, calm and startle.
Crackling sounds of old vinyl when the light comes back. Or maybe it’s the wall that’s cracking, the paper that’s being torn, the old cookie that’s being chewed – and why not those chips that you’ll have to nibble on, with your back to the wall, on a leisurely evening, or because That’s all that’s left.

Words to express humanity. Or perhaps just the beauty of languages, the Europe that is growing, re-sowing its roots, from north to south. Maybe it’s not so bad if we don’t understand them. Perhaps the names in graffiti are just examples, among a hundred others.
Black stitched with lights, which take refuge behind panels. Or perhaps it is a dark storm, the obscurantism of the centuries, crossed by brief glimmers like so many bursts of humanity. Perhaps the light pierces the black – or is it the darkness that absorbs the light? Perhaps this is the very image of balance.
Dancers in miraculous tune with a crazy management team. Or perhaps they are memories of bone and flesh, fragments of humanity stirring in a noisy gangue and informing the tiny pieces of the puzzle of life. Perhaps they are dancers, perhaps they are above all the electrons of an aesthetic dramaturgy, which seeks itself in a total spectacle.
A metonymy in chiaroscuro. Or perhaps there are, despite everything, red threads drawn into the invisible. Perhaps these thrown stones deceive the infinite juxtaposition by leading towards the pile. Perhaps these faces, reflected in mirrors or brandished in photos, belie anonymity by seeking out the individual.
Perhaps these white hands affixed to the wall – to all high walls – are imprints which remain in the eternal night…”
Extract from a text by Manon Ona, published on October 11, 2012 on lecloudanslaplanche.com