Discover the contemporary work of J.Claude SAVI

My parents always told me I was born after the war, and of course I believe them. On the other hand, they had a very hard time recalling my memories of childhood, and so did I, which leaves an immense ocean of situations to be invented and not remade, sometimes in my own way, but also, unfortunately, in those of others. I quenched my thirst on springwater, not always very potable, and fed on everything that came my way, being basically convinced that time would do its work and that it would separate the wheat from the chaff for me. That was what happened, even if I sometimes lament not having been more involved in this selection process. Don't ask me where I was, I was going to ask you thesame question myself . And the years passed by, golden, bitter, cold, carnival-like, so-so, mournful, erectile, and richly colored . . . as they do for everyone, after all . . . Days and evenings spent scratching the belly of my guitar, feverishly annotating my texts and verse-viçà, seeking the muses' G-spot, writing with the guitar and composing with a pencil, colliding with the modesty of words drowned in vapid sentimentality. Then came intimate and repeated encounters on a quai in Bordeaux, doubts, disturbing ferments and, suddenly, extraordinary illuminations. My parents always told me I was born after the war, and often I believe them. After two years labor under my skin, a book was born: "Le lit de la vague." But a book doesn't always get the buzz that makes pages turn, and everything can be definitively buried. There followed a few experiments that were not always very fruitful, but which had at least the merit of making writing exist on walls. The neologism "Paintedwords" (peintecriture) seemed to me necessary because it allowed me to represent words, and this soon led me to calligraphy. That old lady received me very graciously, offering me a cup of tea Meliotta from eastern Abysinnia, but I declined no less graciously her offer of a twenty-year apprenticeship contract, arguing mainly that I was in a hurry. Before leaving, she nonetheless agreed to entrust me, as a viaticum, with a few pears to slake my thirst.The arrival of colors and a handful of tried and true techniques has now allowed me to reconstitute a world that is my own, beyond all words, outside all codes, but also enriched by these words and these codes. My parents always told me that I was born after the war, and sometimes I believe them. .