La création artistique coûte cher et je ne dispose pas d'un mécène.

Ma condition pour le moins précaire ne me permet pas d'occuper un atelier.

Si vous voulez contribuer à l'épanouissement d'un artiste, vous pouvez me faire un don.

Un, dix, cent euros, voire plus, vous pouvez donner ce que souhaitez, cela aide toujours à l'achat de matériel ou autre.


Contactez-moi à l'adresse :


N'hésitez pas,

surtout si vous croyez qu'un artiste doit travailler dans des conditions décentes

et que l'on peut faire mieux que du Koons. 


Par avance, merci.

Je suis votre éternel obligé.


Why I felt compelled to write?


Because I am suffering


That's all. No other reason in fact. 


I am skinny.

I am a wog.

I am a fairy.


These three statements only lead to an excruciatingly horrible pain.


I have no recognition for my artistic work, Nobody believes in me.


Paris is such a hypocritical city.


In my childhood, my mother used to tell me I was the shit that went out of her womb. I really think she was right. I never was happy. Nor in classes, neither at work. So I decided to take a revenge by art. In the real world, you just can't tell fuck you to the world, but if you're a writer you can write it in capital letters.


Writing is the only way left to me to express my horror towards the world. I could have sunk in alcoholism. I rather fell into myself, I have collapsed. This is something called nervous breakdown. People think that you're demented if it happens, they ignore that the same can happen to them. So they do drugs and pretend to be strong and they mentally kill their neighbor.


That's the bitter truth. Yet, they are weak because they do not try to understand their fuckin behaviour. I use strong words , it's important to call a spade a spade. Maybe in the future they will read these lines and they will be horrified by their social violence.


I read about Emile Louis : he wrote about a homophobic rape. Guess who was guilty?

A man of Arab descent. I'm not sure that it was very interesting. It stigmatizes a population. Gay people will read it and say "Of course, Wogs are homophobics". 


It's completely stupid : every person is different. You just can't say things like that. A good writer shall face you to your own demons, not participate in wog-bashing.


Papers say Emile Louis is gifted, talented but that's absolutely not the case. His writings are completely base et vain : he tells  a gay xenophic audience what this racist community wants to read.


I hope I will never be like him.


I have no other work that re enchanting the world  which seems absurd. I don't say that it is an easy place to live but even if we are in the gutter, we shall look at the stars.


Why I became the Antichrist and what does that mean ?


One day, I decided to be true and cease to please. This day, I became the Great Wild Beast. I despise all that is living, and especially human beings. I wish their annihilation, it gives me pleasure. It’s not because of who they are. But it’s because of who I was. When I used to be nice. When I used to reject my own wickedness.

I tried to be and I was fake, not really me, but a character, the good guy. I would try not to hurt but it was all in vain because most of people aspire to be abused. I was losing myself pretending to care for someone else when in my inner self, I did not give a shit about it. My emotions were played, not felt. I would say yes to every request. Yes to being someone who was not me but a side-effect of my puritan education: be still, be kind, keep quiet.


But soon I couldn’t handle it. It was the day I was told by Herve Joubert-Laurencin to help myself and the sky will help. What was that fucker telling me? Did he ignore that in my whole life no fuckin' one ever helped me?

That I had to suffer abuse from my family and rejection from the French society?

That bastard probably did imagine that I was blessed.

Blessed with what? Having a crazy, violent mother? A stupid father led by my sister who was a lezzie and who hated me because I was gay?

This was too much.


Inside of me, I broke down. Because in my inner self, I did not want to disappoint my teacher. He was after all a role model, someone who had reached success. Everything he said, I followed. The way he walked, the way he talked. And why not? I was still a kid, innocent. And he was my Ubermensch. Which kid doesn’t want to become the Ubermensch? So to evolve, I had to copy him. And do what he said because he knew best.

Until he doesn’t.


That was the day when I needed help. That dopey ol' bloke abandoned me because he feared for his own reputation. After moral harassment, he left me in a state of nervous breakdown, willing not to assume his wicked deeds. At that moment I felt destroyed. I had forgotten who I was. A sensitive person whose emotions guide his life. A true artist.

I got ashamed.


Hervé had told me his own version of what is acceptable and what is not. He never ever had wanted to enlighten my mind. For him, I should stay "a wog" colonized by his white boss.

His attitude was the final weight that laid on top of me. Crushing my soul into the abyss of depression. I was facing death. I was feeling miserable, lost, sick. I was tired. I did not want to die. It’s just that I thought life was done. No meaning, no purpose, no joy. No place for me anymore. I wasn’t sad, I was just bored.

Boredom is the oposite of real life. Hence the expression “I am bored to death.” But death of my mind, not of my body. I was mentally dead with my live body walking by. And that’s exactly what depression is. Having nothing else to do than to keep breathing without having any more reason to live. Being crushed to the ground made me realize than I can’t get any lower.


There was only only way to escape. Becoming the Antichrist. 


Better to reign in Hell then serve in Heaven, said Milton in Paradise lost. So I entered the kingdom of darkness, my bad sides : I became a pig, like in Salo, I tried to destroy myself doing drugs, screwing, abusing, hurting by pleasure. I turned into a sadist, mentally. I read about manipulation. I filled my vision with scenes of fist-fucking and double anal penetrations. I wanted to know what it was to enter the psyche of a serial killer, so I listened day after day to The downward spiral by Trent Reznor and music by Throbbing Gristle. I painted with my own blood, I talked with whores and hoboes. I let myself be raped to experience sexual suffering, I was paid for a blow-job. I wanted to live more than anyone else. I had to go always further away on the path of decadence. That did not diminished my energy.


I was so curious, I wanted to learn about every kind of perversion, every means of torture. I was living what Christians call the Apocalypse. I practiced every form of sin : lust, sodomy, violence, arrogance, lying, leading innocent to temptation. Blasphemy became my motto. For Dior, I enticed to prostitution for a University teacher living in the XVe, for Chanel, I organized a threesome for a doctor near Arcueil. They thought I was pure, but no, I was playing, seeing until where they could go into perversion.


Parisian sex world is a real rock n roll circus, where drugs and alcohol abound, there's  omething fascinating in those shady circles where age or sex do not really mean anything. A father of three children can fuck with a tranny whereas his wife, in the fourties, letting him not to know, is ass-fucked by a 15-year-old boy. n Evidently, all of this shall not be told, but it's so amusing that I have to write it maybe because I am a pervert. I could give names, I don't want for the moment, but it's sure that Paris will be ashamed.


In those parties, who was I? An anthropologist I think, a psychoanalyst too, a moralist for sure.


Every emotion of my personality I erased in order to harden my mind, I finally understood that death is the only goal of humankind. I had become the Antichrist, I could destroy someone else by satanic rituals, that is too say mental perversion. It's very easy in fact to become mad or at least to pretend to be. And I did want to live.


I got tired of feeling bored. Of feeling hopeless. I had to regain my courage by learning to be dictatorial.


I had learned that France was a land of perverted minds so I could become one of them too. I could say Yes to Life, be a debauchee, "un ecrivain maudit", the wickedest man in the world. So slowly, I started removing weight from my shoulders. Unpeeling all the expectations from me. One by one. From the top. From the most shallow to the most deep. Until I got to the final one. But I had to do it. Hervé Joubert-Laurencin had betrayed me. So I will be a bitch, a slut, a pop prostitute.


To save my day. To end his life.


It’s hard to make a change because it changes you into someone who disagrees with who you used to be. But there I did it. I said no to who I was. As Caligula said, oderint dum metuant, they may hate me, but they must fear me. And quoting Maurice Pialat, "you don't love me? So what? I don't love you either". I chose not to accept who I was. I could have been much more than who I was. And strive towards a better self. I had to stand up for myself.


To be a monster. A controlled one. And stand up to the bullies by being a bully too.


No more letting others kick me around. No more being anyone’s emotional slave. And that’s who I was, a slave. Not nice. I was never pleasing, all I was saying was a bunch of lies. There are many times where I will have to talk about uncomfortable stuff. And yes, it sometimes hurts. Because the truth is harsh. Nasty. But it has to said. It is through the truth that I can live an authentic life. Leading to myself. To my happiness. The truth is that force that moves everything. It’s a feeling that I have, that I know I am going on the right path. But when I’m kind, I fill myself with lies. It takes conflict to solve problems. They cannot be avoided. If you avoid problems , they will spiral up to where it’s dangerous, where they have grown into big problems all by themselves, leading things to get out of control.


Whoever believes in lies, sooner or later lives in hell. Heaven is a point of view, a state of mind, and so is hell,” as Don Miguel Ruiz wrote in The Four Agreements.I had chosen psychological hell by avoiding conflict. I’d got bullied therefore I was born for hate and that is what takes me constantly one step further


The only cure is to be vulnerable. To care for oneself and never for what other people think.

The antidote to human evil is self-compassion.  As an artist, I don't have to be concerned with criticisms, that's the problem of the public. My role is to never stop.


Do I sometimes cry?


Yes, when I'm hurt by the thorn of a rose, never when it deals with public opinion. Freedom to fuck with another one, or to do nasty things, that's the only reality of French democracy. All the other principles are bullshit.  I won't change the system and I don't want to. But when of those men of power dies, I can't help myself thinking " At least, he's dead. He won't bother us again". And when it's a woman, as I am quite misogynistic,  "Ah she will stop bitching".


A child again. I found myself.

I finally found my Ubermensch.


All this time he was right here. In my heart. A part of me. Hidden because of uninteresting people. And that’s why I hate nice people. Or used to. They waste my time. Now, I can fly to my highest dreams or fall down from wuthering heights . Impress the weak.  Bother the klein-bürgerlich minds who have so often wished I was dead. People think I shock. But am I not shocked by their mediocrity, the poverty of their views, the baseness of their opinions?

Who the fuck do they think they are? Their judgements do not matter, nothing really matters at all. They're ignorant, let their stupidity fill their head until it explodes. That would me laugh with a little satanic, sardonic smile.


Am I not a Sardanapale after all, a libertine, an admirer of de Sade? 


Would they compare me to him would probably mean they were born with a brain.

I doubt of it, after all.


Only stupid people think they have something interesting to say, others write it. That's the difference between me and them. 


Verba volant, scripsi manent.


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