Orphan of the Stars
The melody of infinite spaces always frightens those deaf to the celestial vibrations of Love. Every nebula is an eternal score, with neither introduction nor coda, whose one and only note vibrates forever inside a tiny piece of wood. But you already know all that.
Without a spaceship and spacesuit-free, you criss-cross spatial and temporal pathways in search of a world to welcome your exile, far from the red and green galaxy from where you came. Whoever knows your brilliance can make an assessment of your diameter and speed. But in the eyes of mortals, it remains easiest to observe your coming by projection: pierce a piece of card, point it in your direction and observe the result on the white surface of a screen, or else contact an astronomy club.
It takes 487 seconds for the main optical observation satellite, bearing the brand name Voslion, to complete a full revolution around you on magnetic tape. The halos do not blind him and his instrument amplifies meaning, but never your trajectory.
Yet, before the cold of the early morning hours, you drop from the skylight of the closest of our stars. As no one knocks at the door of the cosmos before entering, a horn sounds to announce you. From your smooth, craterless skull, like a big chunk of red moon, you pierce the atmosphere and set the starless sky ablaze with green, incandescent particles. There you are in our dimension, you're one of us now.
Please, from this low flame that burns in you, illuminate the dark side of your family album, kindle joy with the tips of your gleaming fingers, erase the frowns, heal the sorrows, dispel the shadow of the nightmare, and play for us. Play for us without bending your knees, in the name of Venus, Osiris and Parker Charlie.
Thomas Bernard, Art columnist
Chapdeuil - 2019
Thomas Bernard was born in Libourne in 1980. Art columnist for Fluide Glacial, he is also exhibition curator for La Véranda and artistic co-director for Ferraille Productions of the Formula Bula festival, comics and more.