Julien Creuzet & Léna Araguas — J’ai quitté Paris // Jangal (…) mon dawa — Dohyang Lee Gallery — Exhibition — Slash Paris

Past: May 21 → September 24, 2016

“Julien,

I’m writing to you from your homeland, in the 93, you left it quickly to grow up in the archipelagos and then came back. You crossed the oceans a number of times, lengths of seas, roads, trails, rails, branches, tunnels. From these crossings, you’ve kept the rhythm of internal movements, a way of linking things together, passing from here to there, between you and the island and the town where you live, between your hand and the objects that you hold, between you and those to whom you are ceremoniously addressing an artwork. Here too you collect shells, driftwood, you cut shorts, you engrave poems into wood, you film and edit on your telephone, you couple with madonnas, you dissolve the images of the universe that you speak to from your window, a train, a path.

Your nearby and faraway godmother
Wait I have to run now, later…"

Balata, at the bottom of the earth
underneath,
near to the hardy roots.
Balata, in beautiful headiness,
from the treetops.

Down below, in the sediments,
dry sandstone, archive of time;

dust.

It rained, on the muddy mass,
rocky breasts, suffocating expanse.

Dust,
and if all of this was afterwards,
red cuttings of press,
bitter pressure.

This suffocating heat.
I am not speaking of the oncoming summer,
It’s already too late
for the capsized vessel.

In the swell,
my heart danced a tango.

They set fire to the pavilion (Savare),
to make the migrants flee,
on the peninsula,
will it appear ?

How can we know,
the why of the hot embers ?

Jangal (…) my dawa.

It is my problem,
I will always be the other,
in the forest.

As regards, your language.

Do you really want to know ?
Why do they think,
that I am going to ask them for money ?
Do you really want to know why
these people do not want to sit,
beside me ?

I am this pile of stories,
without incidence.
Because you are still here.

I am this old piece of wood,
mahogany from Cuba,
and even though I am in your here,
I am of a rare density.

Well before the sun of war,
before these salafist masks,
before Castro, before the embargo.

I am of a rare density, tangled,
Because I learned to see,
through the thick jungle.

To reveal, the insect sitting on the branch.

Balata, at the bottom of the earth
underneath,
near to the hardy roots.
Balata, in beautiful headiness,
from the treetops.

Should have left the sky
the remains of this sparse star at the break of day.
Should have left the centre,
of the belt that cuts us in half,
above and below.
Should have found the shortest point,
to be thrown outside,
as far as possible from this inhuman time,
that hides our atmosphere. (…)