Mindlessly passing my hand over my chest, only to find the odd bit of caster sugar. Nice, i'm gonna hide more food around my body I like these surprises.

Danse.

I've never really got started on this, never written on it. Ah the merging of loved arts... :D

What struck me with this, and has many a time before, is the redefinition of aesthetics in art.
Everyone has deep rooted ideas of what is pretty. Looking at the way Mucha draws fingers, tapering off to the end, the ornamental lines that were eye pleasing at the time, long strokes that curb suddenly and interlace each other.
In ballet classes when I was ten, we were taught legs taught and feet pointed. And this dancer does that, but what makes this piece stricking is when she doesn't. It's the moments you see her arm muscles, her strong upper back, the way it pumps and explodes on the beat. It's the contorsions no longer reserved for contorsion acts in freak shows. It's saying ok, this is cool now. Our bodies can do this therefor there is beauty in it. This foot suddenly sticking out is power. The way her pelvis is pushed forward and back rounded, complete opposite to the sexy booty jiggling about and breast thrust forward. It's the alternance of harsh movement and  self awarness she is showing off. In art, even when the goal is to not attain beauty, aesthetics are involved and reached and create a greater overall beauty.
And when I dance, I'm aware of these things too, I long to delve into dancing properly outside of parties because when I am at a party, among the mass of mindless head bobbing people what I'm doing is working. I'm practising my movements, trying things working out my new beauty, remember the air of other dancers I've seen at other parties. I'm thinking what shape is my body making is it something we're used to, how have I evolved over the years what will be the next influence to me ?

Be in the Love

This is the first part of a tryptic.

I have always drawn people, but only recently have I questionned who I draw.
I'd started thinking about the Guerrila girls statement, --do women have to be naked to get into museums-- and went of to want to draw male people but found it quite difficult and keep coming back to women.
Yesterday, I found this website called Women Painting Women. And it's so great, I'm finding new arguments. A man painting a naked women's body is not the same as a women doing it.

It's important to wonder why we need naked bodies and are they always necessary, in my new found love for Art Nouveau, and Mucha, I see that he used naked women for advertising, most of his work was promotion from anything from train trips down to Monaco to Washing Up Powder. This I find wrong, so I find it wrong too if I'm just puting a scarcely clothed woman in my painting for aestheics only.
But I'm not, by chosing who I paint, and adding variety, moving away from the able, white, beauty-norm conforming bodies and using them to promote other ideas such as healthy love and peace as I know I will in my next work, I'm not ashamed of gaining inspiration from a tad muddy background.

I love the complexity of the world and of intersectionnal feminism. I love that who you are gives complete different meanings to what you do and what is acceptable for you. I know I'm far from being clear about what is ok for me to and am surely making many mistakes allong the way.

Hokay, one of my first illustrations I guess. I've recently fallen upon Mucha and Art Nouveau. This is heavily inspired by this image, for no particular reason than me liking it. Until the Il bit. I'm gonna explain it because, unless you're super into french gender-neutral linguistics, you're not gon get it.

Christianity is riddled with gendered concepts and that is one of the many reasons I refuse it. "Ainsi soit-il" is the french translation of the latin, Amen. Il is the masculin pronoun, also used in place of neutral, it. Like in english and the more and more common use of they and them to refere to anyone, a lot of people are looking for gender neutral alternatives in french, and I love this because it melds two of my favorite subjects, feminism and linguistics. There are different ways of doing this, you can refere to someone who doesn't wish to be gendered by ielle, the mix of il and elle, and the advantage of this is that you can hear the difference orally. However, it didn't fit so well on my page, so I went for the lesser used but still visual, ille. 

It's always good to queer things up. 

Brighton. 3 pounds and 8 pence. I had to buy 10 pencils and a whole pad of paper.

This is what I want. The urge to write, before it goes, because I've just been living and know there was something special about it. It's special every day.
Right now I'm good, it's 8pm, I'm knackered, can't walk straight and nearly got runover. But I'm walking to the train station and I'm pretending to myself that I'm part of this noisy funny group of people. It's funny to me anyway, they don't know I'm pretending. They don't know I just got what I want.
What I want is not staring into someone's eyes, promising years of the awkwardness of the mundanity. I want the awkwardness of funny new encounters. I want the conversations we do because we want to talk but don't quite know how to talk together. Knowing it will come.
I want the awkwardness of going back to their place, knowing full well there's nothing to do there but each other.
Somehow, through lapses of varying akwardness so blatant it honestly isn't, we're there.
I'm there in the darkness of our mouths, light absent because I'm seeing with my tastebuds now and all else is forgotten but my hand on his penis and his hand on my vagina. If medidation is undadultered concentration on the present moment then I'm there. The tunnelled vision into the triangular loop that we are. I don't care for the dripping pussies and hard dicks, I want the ones full of sweat and blood and salty and sour because they're the ones we have. And I don't want the mind numbing orgasm, I want the one that makes me want to cry and hug it's creator. I want the beauty you can't place, the one that makes you smile and want to look some more.

I want the like-drunken walk home. If I was told my rhubarb ice cream had been mdma spiked I would not be surprised -- the elation of the attraction, the glory of the connection then the dispair of the separation. This is what people mistake for LOVE, for FEELINGS. This is what people think you base a long term full blown relationship on. The fact that they feel good together and bad appart and wait for texts to vibrate their phones and suddenly stop in the middle of the washing up because their mind was elsewhere lingering on the memory of a body. This is not.

But I think that yes, /because/ I do I want to see this person every day and would jokingly consider giving up my job so we can go back to the luxury of student life of spending entire days in bed; then we should. It's.nothing.more.than.that.

Quite frequently, the closest I come to dying is when my big toe gets caught in the big flowing throuser leg of my other foot. Its terrifying.

Mundane Munday (don't tell me there's not etymological link in that !)

I realise now how many of my thoughts range between the interaction between me and humans and me and places.

My thoughts about who am I in different places, and who am I with different people.

Home. I'm home in the sense that I'm at the place I called home for about 20 years of my life. I recently cleared my pink ladden bedroom, the glitter, the feather boas, the frog mobiles hanging, the dirty knickers and socks, hidden under the cupboards since about 5 years ago probably, and the Postman Pat poster that had been on the door forever - forever an in for all it's existence because this room did not exist before me. Before I was a child and used to sleep with my face pressed up agaisnt the cool white wall, lying on my right side. If I can't sleep at night I still picture that wall so I can remember what side I like to sleep on. Finnally emptied the suitcases of bits, those bits I know not what to do with, that date back about 4 years ago, the remainders of going back and forth to my new student home in paris and my childhood home in Normandy. Elisa's union jack cushion, Corentin's wednesday-afternoon-sex socks, that broken wing-mirror I found in the street and had to keep, because, memories. That box of my failed attempts at being a groupie, collecting my friends-that-were-in-a-bands' broken guitar strings and drumsticks. Well, I didn't fail that much, still got to sleep with them and be on all the official festival photos...

Those few square meters in that pink room are where I have spend the most hours of my life. Weird thought.

Sunday, when I was at this guy's place (this guy that I'd only met once a few years ago and because we both wanted to hook up cuz didn't get round to it at the time, and for some reason we got talking on facebook again, so I thought it would be a good idea to go round to his for a party) So, sunday afternoon, after the excitment of the party, and the new people, and the nightime fun was over, I suddenly wanted to be with people I know. That translated into me calling my Mum and doing a 5 hour train ride to get here. And it's nice. I'm out of my life a bit, I'm in hers. Hers with the teenage brother who doesn't know what to do but smoke dope, Hers with the boyfriend who has a bad knee, hers with the artclasses and the kittens and the messy car. I'm just here for a few days, happy to be with people I know and to not care about any of it appart from a compationate way.

I'm trying to write about these parts of my life also, trying to not filter out only the highly trendy parts and glamourise them to the extreme, I want to write about the mundane also, and hope it is mildly intertaining to some people.Well, this is it for me today, maybe i'll add something later.

Bit of meta-cognition-writing here : i've gon from writing about writing in the first line, to being fully immersed in what I was writing, then, at the end, came out of it, looked at it in a critical mind, and wrote about that. Prettty much the path you, reader, will follow :)

beauty and young lust

To see the first moment you realise you want me like I want you. Your angelic face. I want to see the face you make, your eyes half open, unable to process the feeling. Your jaw gently dropped and your breath stopped. The few little whimpers seconds before and the moment after you decide you can’t take anymore.

Maybe a spasm and the fall. The realisation that you just came for me, that we moved in each other and exchanged breaths simply out of beauty and young lust.