libre marché 2006


On this market stall, a new commodity is put on sale : Head-shaped clay bullae. They contain counting tokens.


I am my treasure, I am my essence, the only real value, cleared of my rags, escaped from my intimate dreams. I am my pure diamond, my primitive self. I burrowed into an heart of clay, deal made between me and I. Counting tokens, where, printing my face in the loose earth of my dawn, was born the wild portrait of a human spark. I sealed it the time of my life, maybe more, on the thread of the “I”, the “unique”, like a pattern on the infinite material of my species. So much similar to that multitude and so much different from each one, I am a singular and delicate cry lost in the boisterous brouhaha of my brothers.

But our singularities are not popular. We sell our flesh, our strengths, our minds, our times, our skills. We assess, we value, we reckon, we gauge, we quantify our capacities. We put a cost on our lives. However I affirm it to you “We” does not exist, or not any longer, or never, or always, “We” does not have a face, this is its strength, this is my weakness. “I” is unique and “We” ignores it. “We”, the ignorant, ignores me. “We” can only calculate, calculate the counting tokens of the incredible “I”.

Bruno Poiré