“I was forced to find a new box. It was not an easy undertaking.

In this economic situation, in this crisis, nobody really has boxes

to give away for free to a man like me.

Boxes have become as rare as smart decisions.”

“Ficksion was born in 2020 in the heart of the pandemic, I would even say out of the pandemic. With the sudden appearance of boxes in our lives.

Our homes were turned into boxes, carefully sealed boxes, yet constantly connected to the flow of threatening information coming from the outside world.

A refuge, a space of retreat and digestion, homes became an observation post towards an irreparably contaminated outside.

Boxes appeared on our doorstep. Delivered by helmeted strangers, handled with care, they brought to our house goods, essential or not, as an undeniable proof that something was still happening outside, that the outside world was keeping on producing, preparing, manufacturing somehow somewhere...

And what about the box of my body imprisoned in the apartment box? A body that still had its connection abilities, its desires and necessities to meet the others.

Disoriented, in precarious balance despite the so delimited frame of my boxed existence, I felt tossed from left to right, like a moving box.

So I decided to start writing about this confined, unstable, invisible body… I imagined a body moving in a space cluttered with what we get rid of or with what we don't want to see, strewn with pitfalls. The body would crawl between the layers of unstable boxes, progressing by successive strata, as much physical as intimate.

The body would hide, camouflage, protect itself: a disarmed body, fully conscious of the precarious and absurd construction behind which it shelters...

Seven years later, I return to the solo format, the third of my career.

I returned to the body alone in the scenic box, echoing the box-body trapped in the box-apartment. The solo as a vital connexion that could allow me to find myself again...”