Every man, every woman, every child in the world is a potential artist. Each one of us carries within him a creative genius which would develop if it were encouraged. I address myself to the potential artist in you. It is your childhood dreams that I want to awake, it is your deep sensitivity that I want to converse with.

Artists are those for whom producing their work is an existential question, which can lead them, like Séraphine de Senlis, to pursue their quest for meaning, rather than fill their stomach. It is clear today that many of those who claim to be artists are shopkeepers. This is why we must redefine what an artist is and what art is[1] since we are in the process of deconstructing everything. Because these words don’t mean anything anymore, except that the elitist world of art is mingling with the commercial world which sells emptiness for dreams, which slaughters what humanity has created of the most beautiful.

You call yourself an artist and you feel unfairly targeted by my words? Forgive me for reminding you that criticizing is not condemning. I’m making a critical judgment to invite you to question yourself with me. You didn’t wait for me to do it? Good for you! You doubt your legitimacy? It is because you know the absurdity in which we are embarked, and it’s because you will assert it, that things will move. It always comes back to the butterfly effect.

It depends on each of us to reinvest the field, starting by choosing the artists to whom we offer our admiration, without letting ourselves be seduced by the deceptive appearances of the commercial world. As we are all potential artists, it’s also up to us to visualise and materialize the world to which we aspire, with the ideal and the imagination, by ceasing to put our existence in the hands of madmen or inconsequential individuals, put into action by the ‘survival of the fittest.

It is inhabited by the conviction that all humans are artists, that the idea came to me to archive the drawings, the strokes of mind, the ideas that the Gilets Jaunes inscribed on their back. It became Plein le dos[2], an artistic, political, collective and solidarity initiative, which I will talk about later. Finally, as an artist, no more, no less than you, and taking my role very seriously, and since it is time for the end of the dying Old World, I aspire to put some ideals back on the horizon, by proposing you first of all to emancipate yourself from the certainties with which the obscene world does not cease to stupefy us in order to maintain its domination.

[1] Annie Le Brun, Ce qui n’a pas de prix, Stock, 2018

[2] www.pleinledos.org