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Mr Pousse-Mousse (Part 2)

It transpires that, like all idiots who have more of a career than a future, I must work, if only to carry on renting a rotten piece of carpet and a toilet block on the brink of collapse belonging to my poisonous landlord. As for me, I have an eye for detail and I’m a great lover of sealife, and so, in order to combine utility with pleasure, and despite the careers advisor’s prediction of a factory career, I became a dishwasher in a restaurant in the centre of town.

Between the midday and the evening table service, I go round in circles like a kind of human pet, my neighbourhood too far away to be able to stop. So to keep myself busy, I (become tame) as I sketch out a material happiness on each shop window, the suspension of my banking privileges replacing my heart. As if putting things into bonds could ever fill the void of human existence. A storm brews and my voice bursts with pride. There’s nothing left but to stroll at a leisurely pace to the rhythm of the overcrowded bus-shelter, its benches christened by pigeons to assert my power, my arse acting as emissary and the large bomber jacket on my back like an occupational army. From this rock in the middle of the urban sea, my sense of truth and I are fair judges of the odd puppet-like specimens (affranchis) with views on everything and nothing, always expressed out loud.


Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie Inge

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“le déserteur is the subject of a narrative, a work of art, a…

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“le déserteur is the subject of a narrative, a work of art, a beacon of communication”
le déserteur is the first native “art and literature” exhibition. Its mission is to provide the experience of being at an art exhibition on an iPad. But le déserteur is more than just a digital art app combining photographs, short films, music and literature, its goal is to transform the iPad into an ephemeral work of art itself.
The app consists of two consecutive and imbricated exhibition rooms: “Anonymous bodies” and “Labyrinths”. le déserteur questions the role of the anonymous bodies in the cathartic act of desertion leading to the endless and protean quest for identity amid the labyrinth of life.
le déserteur -the deserter- will keep its promises. It will be available 365 days on the App Store before deserting. During this year, le déserteur will also materialise IRL pop-up exhibitions.

Download the app on the App Store itunes.apple.com/app/le-deserteur/id1040540189

Sylvain Souklaye for Synesthesia EXP

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Lament of an outcast (Part 1)

Here we are. It’s one of those nights where tiredness beats me square on my downcast brow, my drifting neck, my weary shoulders, my motionless loins. But it’s already too late to go to sleep and insomnia comes easily. My pinhole camera has nothing left to offer after my night shift and without enough sleep it is hard for me to use my full imagination. So what’s left? Writing? What else? And after that? I have given up two years of my life as a sample, flagship product. So do you like my drug? Now you must queue up to refresh yourself at the store or walk to the bookshop. Essentially, apart from a bit of megalomania, I’m hollow, but big enough to eliminate.

No more alcohol, no alcove, not enough twilight, never any dawn. At anytime, I take the only opportunity available to me. Nervously, I search for the black cord, all tangled up. I strip it apart, following the ball of wires, finally arriving at the TRS connector to stick into the Mac. Click, connect. Once it is plugged in, I feel like a part of something and that reassures me and ressembles me. Because the thing in question asks for no answers from people.
As I return from my matrix, I consult the definitive mood of my playlist, hesitating between the avant garde and the basics. The showcase or the dust? You wonder which, but at this point in my tale is hanging on by the tiniest pin, only a half-truth could satisfy me. Even if it was well-advertised and corrupted by a radio edit.


Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie Inge

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I will never make new childhood friends

In short, rather the memory of one of these moments suspended than an absence where you remember a past spent in pairs that had no future, that knew no fear or bounds. Just you and me in the silence as if we were born to start a revolution, as an alternative to death, lasting 365 days from this same placenta made of peripheral concrete. But nostalgia saves no one from the additional imperfection that makes handcuffed strangers out of us. And yet, at this point of my endless narration, again and again I must pretend just like you to save what is left of our museum, but without knowing why.

Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie Inge

 

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The last ones politely curse the first ones

In the end the tax return form is of no importance, childhood always takes us back to the time of the first scrapes, internal struggles, mysterious fears of darkness, of monsters, of the end and that long shadow that chases after us right at our heels. Apart from that, it’s a long path, directionless and psychotropes, phoney over-the-counter medecine. Life is a placebo that is well worth all of its illnesses. So as not to make the most out of the present, together. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just to hear cries of joy around you. And what if there was no one there?    

All you can do is fill up this emptiness, a battle worthy of that word that deserves a block calendar and even a part-time mother. Bit by bit, little by little, piece by piece, you evaluate the situation, make links, consider the pros and the cons. All that counts is the function of the rhythm and the kind of mechanism. There is nothing beautiful, perfect, ideal or idyllic about an indeterminate suicide mission. To make little letters to be read with caution, a contract is still necessary. But life is a gift that you can’t refuse and no one questions such a present. So sell your life dearly, and sell theirs at a discount, buy time behind masks, a deception worthy of this mascarade.



Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie Inge

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I have some things to say and you are going to hear them

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I will not say good evening or my name and certainly not my nickname. I am quite happy to take the place that is rightfully mine on the righthand side of mankind’s first freestyle. I am only there to tell a story. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing amazing, just my ordinary self. An ordinary thing ressembling my face, with last nights bruises, the breath of a grocer, the smell of a stranger and the sound of my playlist. Right now, right here, just you and me, forever and ever, alone, together, together, together…


Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie Inge

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I’m a subculture that takes no prisoners

It was as if their eyes were telling me to go back to the box that they had so graciously assigned me and let me rot in peace… Atmosphere.

As time goes on, the scene replays itself in front of the coffee machine in a consanguineous circle. Even in my sitting room, face to face with another one of those idiots on TV. In a situation such as this, I would rather be plagued by a criminal suspicion, even one of those class inferiority complexes. But, unfortunately, I feel comfortable in my own skin wherever I go. So, next time I meet that stranger and size him up like a slab of meat or a bag of water and the qualifications hanging around his neck, I often hope to take it up with the man himself and not with his humanity!

Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie Inge

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