“OK, so you are asking me to talk about painting, my paintings, about myself ? I might try to put it down in writing, perhaps. What happens in me or where am I when I paint :

I’m not, I fly, flying away probably, going home there where I’m safe and don’t have to prove myself, don’t have to fight back, where I can be me. In this world around me, I’m just a tiny very microscope tiny little something, to whom was given life by simple love and who tries to reproduce life instinctively with simple means and for simple reasons. I’ll become hermit the day my loves will be taken away, for without them, I would not have to, won’t be able to go home anymore. I won’t have to speak, think or to smell anymore. I’ll survive yes, for I will be hunted throughout my entire lucid existence by what the popular calls art, what the cultured calls culture and the naïf calls life.

Life, I want to paint life though I often paint death. Life Death Life Death Life Death Life Death. Yeh, I’m just a tiny very microscope tiny little something who tries to express itself. But the art of nice talking has not been transmitted to me or has been deathly hurt. Those few adults ô so big and important but actually ô so ugly would have cut off my tongue and lower my eyes. Idiots. I paint, write, revolt, express, love. I’m hurt, am sad. Feeling tired, would like to sleep, to let me go. To think that the world may collapse, except for there and there and there.

Who are men that permit themselves to create, to kill and to mutilate for pleasure. They hurt more than doing good. Doing good takes more time and energy than hurting, impatience is law. I’d like to have the powers to do good, to heal and to stop. I can’t scream. That’s a pity for the bad men scream and are deaf.

And thus I talk, sing, scream, tell, share and make myself heared on canvas through my brushstrokes. That’s my painting, my delirium. And the more I paint, the more I can tell, with different dialects, different tones, levels of intensity more and more wandering and reaching.

I’ll never be taken seriously, for I’ll never be an adult.”

Respect, eagerness to live, open mind, untied joy, roughness, subtle opinions, criticism towards unfairness and human cruelty are expressed through the careless and somewhat violent touch of brush spreading the paint with total freedom onto the canvas. Every inch of a colour has its share in crying out loud what the artist feels. Subjects or messages are sometimes thought of, sometimes not. On the spot the awareness of a state of mind followed by a timeless struggle to get it right, to feel it right, giving all her guts and energy, to feel at the end empty and high on, ready to create again.