In a book(painting), as in all things, there are lines of articulation or segmentarity, strata and territories; but also lines of flight, movements of deterritorialization and destratification. Comparative rates of flow on these lines produce phenomena of relative slowness and viscosity, or, on the contrary, of acceleration and rupture. All this, lines and measurable speeds constitutes an assemblage. A book(painting) is an assemblage of this kind, and as such is unattributable. It is a multiplicity—but we don’t know yet what the multiple entails when it is no longer attributed, that is, after it has been elevated to the status of the substantive. On side of a machinic assemblage faces the strata, which doubtless make it a kind of organism, or signifying totality, or determination attributable to a subject; it also has a side facing a body without organs, which is continually dismantling the organism, causing a signifying particles or pure intensities or circulate, and attributing to itself subjects what it leaves with nothing more than a name as the trace of an intensity…(3-4)
I am constantly on a journey. A real journey, an imagined journey. I am a nomad, an intermezzo. I am, in fact, partly real and partly imagined. As everyone is. I am a cloud, as we all are. A cloud, an assemblage. We are assemblages, pieces of art, parts of assemblages, parts of pieces of art. And clouds are my subject here. Clouds that don’t have a strict definition, free to run, walk, go back or to stay. Clouds that don’t have to answer any question, they are just here to be, to listen, to live. Rhyzomes, multiplicities, bodies without organs. That is what I am about.
Don’t ask me to explain what I do, just listen to the room of the painted clouds.