You tell us about tears…
Which came to the eyes of a woman named Dragana whose hands trembled and tears flowed when she took 500 photos, she said, of her most beautiful encounter in the corner of a tree…
The tears that came from Lisette's emotion as she watched one rainy and foggy day at an animal sitting on a stump in the forest, sleeping, washing itself, shaking itself in front of her…
The sobs that come back to color Christian's voice when he tells us about the most beautiful moment of his life at the edge of a wood, when this feline that he had waited for forty years came out of the trees and sat down and took him. looked at and eye to eye, it was love at first sight…
And so Dragana Christian Lisette gives us the gift of their tears in the Progress edition of Jura, through which I touch a mysticism that I have not known, that of the Lynx, whose half-century of return we have just celebrated, long story extinction and repair passed by Switzerland which you can read on the France bleu website. And this ungulate hunter sometimes makes an appearance… We wait for him, we don't know why he is there, you are an elected official, he looks at you, we have the impression that he reads in you, then we hover, we don't come back down on our little cloud…
In the Republic of the Center I read an emotion that our friends from France Culture also echoed in a beautiful program, feet on the ground, four years ago, rebroadcast last summer – “inanimate objects, have- you a soul”, that was the question, and in these objects there were audio cassettes that had been recorded by a woman, a doctor, suffering from cancer who would steal her at 40, and who recorded her states of mind , his thoughts and his girls growing up.
Her eldest daughter Charlotte Vautier, she is a journalist, was 14 years old when her mother died, she is 30 today, she talks about these cassettes that she listened to sometimes laughing and sometimes it was difficult, it It's a secret garden, a landmark, a testimony to the place where she comes from, she hasn't heard everything yet, sometimes she worries about the passage of time because time will damage these thirty-five cassettes. . She says: “I did a big scanning session but as these are solemn and sacred moments, I don't necessarily want to do it quickly. I don't want it to be mechanical.” I imagine her at home opening a closet, and going to meet her mother who she can't wait for anymore and yet she is there.
We also talk about soldiers…
Whose hunger I discovered in Opinion, an article taken from the Wall Street Journal, and suddenly I imagine them in their humanity, these North Korean soldiers whom their country sends to fight with the Russians against Ukraine… Soldiers whose South Korean spies say they are learning to say in Russian, “Fire,” “Stand,” and other war jargon… But one country's soldiers were undernourished and hungry. themselves, fed rice porridge mixed with corn, only touching meat on holidays, soldiers who to escape this hunger without a doubt are ready to die in Russia near Kursk where at least they will be better fed – so tells us Ryu Seong Hyan who speaks from experience, he was one of those hungry soldiers who in 2019 managed to flee his country, he would have accepted war and death at the time when he did not eat…
On the Le Monde website I read of other deaths in Khartoum, the capital of Sudan ravaged by a civil war which would have caused 150,000 victims if we count the deaths of hunger and disease, which are added to the deaths from bombings. .the article begins like this…
“The body arrives but the grave is not yet ready. The gravediggers are digging like devils to complete their work. The procession is already approaching, slaloming between the graves which stretch as far as the eye can see. Around 3 p.m. 30, Mohammed Adam, a 65-year-old carpenter, was dismembered by mortar fire. The shell fell in the courtyard of his house while he was standing. was resting. His daughter, Imane, was bringing him coffee Two hours later, his mortal remains wrapped in a shroud were walking towards his final asylum, carried by a handful of men whose sandals were sinking into the earth. still fresh from the neighboring graves.”
I am always surprised by the gentleness of our words when talking about hell; my colleague Eliott Brachet has this precious talent. I read that in front of houses that the deminers have made safe, cleared of their corpses, basil is sometimes planted in front of the doors, “a green glow in the middle of the ashes”. I cling to this idea…
You finally tell us about a kid…
A 3-year-old kid in 1903 who had missed a snowman, in the garden of his house in Charité-sur-Loire… “A disappointing pile of flakes that resisted modeling,” wrote the Journal du center… And this failure made him was still a concern as a student of decorative arts where he wanted to learn how to achieve it, this guy…
And so begins the story of Marcel Jean, one of the characters of the century-old surrealist adventure and the exhibition dedicated to him at Beaubourg in Paris, not the best known of the group but the most from Nivernais, and one of the most joyful, intensely rebellious living people, than this man that Prévert proclaimed “born to Truth, Friendship and Love-sur-Loire”, who showered his workshop friends with a barrel of Nièvre wine…
So go and perk up with this man whose maharaja, it was a dream then, almost bought this amazing sculpture, a bust whose eyes are zippers, “the specter of Gardenia”, which is in Beaubourg…
Marcel, whose paintings were looted during the war, who traveled, created, wrote about Lautréamont, about surrealism, he wrote well, vachard with the surrealist pope André Breton, “perhaps the man of his century who more bored”, and of infinite delicacy when his wife Lily died 10 years before him in 1983. “In the past our footprints extend, one of them already interrupted. To write is to describe, and I have told a lot. When the last page is written, what will it say? »
In Humanity, I read I see the beauty of Nadia Léger and her works, an effervescence of the 20th century that we celebrate at the Maillol museum… She was born a peasant in Belarus, wearing bark shoes, she was of the avant-gardes and the revolution, she came to France, she formed with Fernand Léger a couple who were well worth Aragon and Elsa, she was part of his frescoes, his abstractions, his colors, like the announcement of pop-art, she was rich, with hats, fur coats and haute couture dresses, rich and a communist too, as rich as she had been cold… She had remained a communist after her brother was executed under Stalin, suspected of treason because she wrote to him… Whoever can will understand.
In L'Equipe, I read about a boy who did not want to lose, ever, in the Hautes-Pyrénes, ball in hand, I look forward to reading the life of Antoine Dupont all week, I learn that at 7 years old , he had seen his friends move up without him from category, from mini-chicks to chicks, and his mother had gone to see the trainer to say that he was sad and that he was going to start football. He was outclassed, not easy, we had a narrow escape.
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