Originally, it's a soundtrack of a video installation by Pipilotti Rist, a cover of Wicked Game. Despite (or thanks to) its strangeness, I find myself listening to it regularly:
It starts off normally, then it goes off the rails. Just like my projects.
Keeping a journal boils down to one single activity for me: describing the obstacle.
What's blocking me right now? What's preventing me from being free, happy, and creative at this moment? What hidden snare is hindering the next step?
Two aspects are crucial:
Firstly, it's solely about describing. No finding a solution. No seeking to amend. I unearth the obstacle and examine it from all angles; I explore its ramifications within me; I ponder why it's blocking me now and in such a manner. And then that's it. Once the problem is brought to light, I let other inner forces take care of resolving it.
Secondly, it's an immediate obstacle. Something that's hindering my progress right now. I'm not trying to fix the situation for eternity. In this sense, the effort is neither theoretical nor intellectual; I'm solely dealing with what's present, operating under the assumption that subsequent difficulties will be handled in the same manner: in the present, as they arise – if they arise. We'll address the future when it arrives.
For this reason, journaling has been part of my daily routine for almost 3 years, right after meditation, and constitutes a key step in my day to stay present.
I discovered that the café I regularly visit, called "The Cellar" (la Cave Café) has... a cellar. Where poetry is read on Monday evenings. Lots of people, mostly English speakers. Poems, songs, stand-up, "anything goes." Great atmosphere.
I got on stage to recite this short poem by François de Cormière in French and English (translated by ChatGPT) because you have to seize the moment, right?
Then came the special guest of the evening: Bonafide Rojas, a poet from the Bronx who came to read excerpts from his book Excelsior. So funny. So charismatic. They call it poetry, but it's essentially very personal trains of thought which take a new kind of life on stage.
He signed his book for me. Though I've only skimmed through it, I appreciate how each poem is peppered with footnotes explaining cultural references – a thoughtful touch for those not entrenched in the New York poetry scene. Well done.
My feature film screenplay "The Stagemaster" set in England (yes, it's in English!) made it to the quarter-finals of the Los Angeles Screenplay Awards. Not bad for a Frenchie :)
It's great news for the future that such a personal screenplay with an unconventional structure is making its mark in mainstream competitions.
I don't go there often, but every time I do, I emerge transformed.
I never read the information: the author, the artistic approach, the family traumas that led them to make ceramics on cows, I couldn't care less. I disconnect my brain.
And always, I feel filled with overflowing gratitude to live in a country where for 9€, you can experience so much freedom in a public place where humans are welcome. At a time when train stations have more advertising boards than benches, that's saying something.
Three things I liked – among many others:
1. No need for an audience
The statues look at the artworks while the mannequins discuss the exhibition. One wonders what the purpose of the audience is.
2. It's meta
There's always a reflection on the medium. We don't just paint on paper; we reflect on the limits of paper, its relationship with ink, its connection with the viewer. And every time, we think, "Oh, are we allowed to do that?"
3. The bookstore
Every time, I choose a book almost at random by looking at the pictures or reading a paragraph in the middle. Over ten years ago, I picked up "On the Inside of Jokes" by Nik Christiansen.
This year, I picked up "The Waterfront Journals" by David Wojnarowicz – apparently, he's quite well-known. I'm already halfway through. This book blows my mind.
I quite liked the original, and once again, no one bothered to notify me of this new version that you all know and that I only discovered this afternoon on the beach:
I took the opportunity to read the lyrics that I had never understood before, and they remind me a bit of Nobody Knows, while still maintaining an almost childlike simplicity, especially:
Went down the hill, the other day Soul got happy and stayed all day
I was about to write an exciting article about the psychological component of effort based on my experience with the rowing machine at the gym: some days, It's a breeze; other days, on the same machine set at the same level, it feels like it weighs a ton.
I was going to explore in detail the psychological, neurological, and physiological origins of this discrepancy, and everyone would have found my article funny, well-researched, and so well-written.
Except that this morning, I discovered the truth.
When I lay my towel on the roller, the fabric prevents the moving air from escaping, and the suction maintains the rotation – or something like that – so that the exercise becomes much, much easier. But as soon as I place my towel elsewhere... Welcome to the Roman galleys.
All of this to say that the laws of physics have spared you another stupid article.
After film photography and paper lists, we continue the regression towards Mad Men, which will be followed, hopefully this year, by a very analog film project that I will talk about soon.
English transcription:
Dear friends, I've finally changed the ink ribbon of my typewriter, so I'm taking this opportunity to share with you some very important information. I know what you're going to say: "Nicolas, you have nothing important to share, you just want to show us that your machine also writes in red." My response is unequivocal: NOT AT ALL. I am surprised and extremely shocked by your doubts towards me. Big kiss XXX . Nicolas Boulenger.
It's a Remington Noiseless that I really like but whose ribbon is difficult to change and doesn't have an exclamation point. So, I add them by hand when I'm very annoyed.
I unexpectedly went to the theater last night and saw "Contre-Temps" by Samuel Sené. Fantastic!
Like a documentary but on stage: instead of archival footage and a voice-over, everything is narrated in the present by two singers and a pianist who recount the – exhilarating – life of the composer François Courdot by interpreting his main works.
At the heart of the show, there is notably a magnificent interpretation of "The Cold Song" by Purcell, of which I present you Klaus Nomi's version here:
Upon leaving, I became interested in this piece that everyone knows the melody of but often not the lyrics – which could come straight out of Game of Thrones:
What power art thou, who from below Hast made me rise unwillingly and slow From beds of everlasting snow?
See'st thou not how stiff and wondrous old Far unfit to bear the bitter cold, I can scarcely move or draw my breath? Let me, let me freeze again to death.
Another amusing detail: I realized that the music for the show had been arranged by Raphaël Bancou, a pianist friend I haven't seen in ten years. I sent him a message, and I'm going to see him on Tuesday at the Rond Point in "Je suis Gréco." Life, sometimes.