The journey has begun. Tonkin. It is the mark of the varnish. Reference. For me. Coaching others. Gabin and Yangtze, black and white. I searched the shelves of the attic. Near the bed, no. In the library at the bottom, yes. That is, "A monkey in winter", Antoine Blondin. The journey has begun. And here begins as this. Incipit ... "One night two, Quentin Albert down the Yang-tse-Kiang in his bed-boat: three thousand kilometers up the estuary, twenty-six days of river ..."
And I was off, turned ... "" When you do not meet the pirates, a double ration of rice wine if the native crew neglected to mutiny. "Hijacked. The right way of my thought. I do not control. I could reduce the sails. Stop Neil Young in the air that punctuates the verses of Blake played by Depp ... "The Whole Creation Will Be Consumed and Appearance infinite and holy Where as it now Appears finite and corrupt This Will come to pass by year improvement of sensual enjoyement Purpose The That notion first man has a body distinct from His Soul Is To Be expunged "... Diverted by a monkey in winter, canonière up the Yang-tse-Kiang, a boat carrying the body of William Blake through space to sepia my eyes. Diverted, I just wanted to say the journey has begun. The varnish applied. He will close the gaps opened by the time between the wooden slats that the hand of man has joined a long time ago. The Canoeing is ancient. The age of my grandmother maybe. Before writing the Monkey in Winter.
I'll try to put my day in pictures only. I can not do, I know . couldnt help. To say, slip of words between the images. Here are imaged traces of my day. The first layer has dried, two days one night. The wood has been drinking there or the waves had worn, where nothing was protecting him. Surprise in the workshop. Only nail polish did not drink.
I clean the inside of the canoe, he also needs polish. For a while, I tried to give a name to the canoe, I read the preface to Stevenson, "Canoeing on the rivers of the North" in Babel, one of the boats was called "Cigarette". In "The Lady of Shalott" by Lord Alfred Tennyson, it's serious name on the boat before being carried by the waves. Here, tonight, for me the boat is clearly the body floating in the story, while she, The Lady of Shalott, leaving the tower, is a figure in mind, the mind imprisoned tapestry weaving length days. The tower is another body on an island, isolated ... motionless.
I return to my canoe and the urge to name it. But it already has. Or almost. "The swallow."
That's how I'm going to call it. Repeat the name on the oxidized copper plate. And a generic name, product name, make a single image. At dusk, weather the bear, the swallow grazes and shaves the surface of the waves, in flight Hapers a drop volley to the mirror.
At what point this plate was not in me led to the emergence of another reference? I paint the canoe on a hill in my village childhood surmplombant the plain of Flanders. The Weppes. Weppes in former West Flemish mean. the last part of Flanders before the deadline of the hills of Artois. The plate is it a place name in Nogent-le-Perranporth.
Flanders + Swallow + = Nogent a song
Flanders = Godesvarvelde
Hirondelle Hirondelle
Nogent = = Faubourg
My everything: Raoul's voice singing "The swallow suburbs.
Lyrics and music: Louis-Ferdinand Bénech Ernest Dumont, 1912
"At the hospital it's time for the visit
The chief doctor passes beds:
The number thirteen, which that is what she has this small?
That they brought the wounded that night
Do not worry, I must probe your wounds
Two stabbed ... near the heart ... there's more blood!
Not lost ... at your age it is hard
Only still must tell your parents! But then the dying
replied
I'm all alone since Mom is gone.
They call me the Hirondelle du Faubourg
I'm just a poor girl love
born one day of the spring season
From a small working
Like other I might have turned out well,
If my father instead of abandoning me
Had able to protect its wing, L'Hirondelle
Dr. said: You wear a medal
is a gift, perhaps, your lover? Not
is the memory of man, nothing worth
From the man who deceived heart without my mom!
Let me read: André, Marie-Therese
But I recognize the silver medal
And this date: April ninety-three!
Leave me alone, I want to heal this child
You look at me all wide-eyed
is my unfortunate duty to treat.
It's called L'Hirondelle du Faubourg
This is a poor girl love
born one day of the spring season
From a small working
Like the others it would have turned
If my father instead of abandoning
Was able to protect its wing, L'Hirondelle
The number thirteen always a fever of
Yes ... it does not go as I had hoped
I see life escape her lips
And nothing to do ... nothing ... to prevent it!
I am a scientist, I Women have healed
But it is this that I wanted to save.
There she goes ... listening away your soul I am your father
my beloved daughter ...
I'm not crazy ... I am an unfortunate
You my students listen ... I want it.
was called L'Hirondelle du Faubourg
was a poor girl love
born one day of the spring season
From a small working
Like the others it would have turned loose
If instead of abandon
I managed to protect my wing
L'Hirondelle. "
And I nail found in a Swallow of grnage Oxelaere, a "Swallow" who inherited after the death of the parent in question did not take water. From what I understand ... By
cons that Raoul Godesvarvelde, two cables off Oxelaere, also sang "My Tonkinese" has no direct relationship, but rather in front of me, with "The Swallow" ... although ...
From "Little Tonkinese" called "The Navigator" ...
"I'm not a great actor I am
navi, navi, navi, navigatore
I know America
As well as Africa
I know many more of these countries
But Happy
It was France that I love best. "
Even if we remain in the river you will see with remouture the "Navigator" in "Little Tonkinese," read the lyrics and let you sink into the bed of the words and there you will see, the music comes ...
"The evening is due to a lot of things
Before you get to pile
I learn geography
From China and Manchuria
borders, rivers
The Yellow River and Blue River
Y same Love is strange
watered the Middle Kingdom.
'I am his little
His Anana his Anana his Anammite
I'm alive, I'm charming Like a little
z'oiseau He sings
calls me his little bourgeois
His Tonkiki his Tonkiki his Tonkinese
Others make eyes at him
But he loves me best. "
The voice that has crept into your head, or at least a certain rhythm and tone, was doubtless that of Mistinguett or more likely of Josephine Baker, Raoul Godesvarvelde having sung the male version of the song ...
"For qu'j'finisse In my service
Tonkin I left
Ah What a beautiful country ladies!
is the paradise of women p'tites
They are beautiful and faithful
dev'nu And I'm the darling little wife
the one who called the country
Mélaoli.
(Chorus)
I swallowed a small
This is Anna, Anna is a, a Annamite
It is intense it is like a charming
z'oiseau singing
I ' called my little bourgeois
Tonkiki My, my Tonkiki my Tonkinese
It Hits m'font others eyes at
But I like it better. "
an era. .. It was only tonight that I fall on the "cover" PATRIOTIC this song, or "Little Tonkinese," gives way to ...
"When she said" to sing his way
Taratata Taratata , taratatère
Oh that enchants its refrain is
as a z-bird that sings
I called the Glorious
My little 'Mimi, my little' Mimi, my gun
Rosalie eyes at me
But she said "I love 'best. "
" Full address
I fat I
polishes and polish
From its head at its pretty little
' guh-mouth 'darling
Then skilful
J'la scrolls
And I tenderly say luis
"Until the end, remain united
For the salvation of the country."
(chorus)
"When we approached the Hun
We start the concert
After a good start
We rush mowing
Comm 'flies
I layer
All soldiers of the Kaiser
Hitting our son iron
Or the four irons in the air. "
full circle. I return to my day when waiting for the complete drying of the cleaning for a new crossing of varnish on my peaceful ship I went to walk around the village, an idea in mind. And a project to install on this familiar territory ... And only tonight that I just figured out a sentence otherwise griffonée long ago, but the source ...
"So many liberties written, son barbed wire on the silence of the landscape" is the first
Once the image of war is associated with this sentence, where until now I could see that the concept of silence swath through the interference of a shrill and voluble individual happiness posed as a hair in the soup middle of my beautiful landscape slencieux ...
Except that my beautiful silent landscape, it is not, it seeps down to the wire each wheat germ ...
On c'te butt'là Y'avait not gigolette No pimps or fine dandies. Ah! It was far from the Moulin Galette, and Panama 'what King of pat'lins.
C'qu'elle drank in the beautiful land that blood, blood of workers and peasants of blood, because the bandits who cause wars
Do not die, one innocent n'tue merde / Someone!
The Butt 'Red is his name, a morning baptism s'fit
Where everyone rode rolled into the ravine. Today
y 'vines he grows grapes.
whoever drinks the wine there, drink the blood of friends. On
c'te butt'là is yr'fait harvest,
We hear shouts and songs;
Girls and guys can exchange slowly
Words of love that are chilling.
Can they think in their wildest hugs
That this place where their kisses are exchanged,
night I heard the complaints mount
And I've seen guys in broken skull!
The Butt 'Red is his name, a morning baptism s'fit
Where everyone rode rolled into the ravine. Today
y 'vines he grows grapes. But I see myself
crosses bearing the names of friends! "It is the
Monthéus. At the head every time out there on the spot. Fromelles, now, they dig up the bodies of 400 soldiers died during the First World War. And at the entrance of the Museum of Fromelles, in addition to opening hours, a poster to engage in the Foreign Legion ... Shame.
The owner of the field, a farmer retired, sold his land, offered his land for a burial to proceed is given. She wants "there beautiful little pink and it's a beautiful park, accessible to everyone."
She says: "It makes us sick at heart to have worked on the bodies. We always said that there was something special about this place ..."
"It put turnips. The leaves were rainbow sky, sometimes with roots of a meter long, had some turnips in the form of a heart. No one ever treated them, there was no worm and they were a great white. "
Between 19 and July 20, 1916, 2000 Australians died there, 3500 were injured, 1500 brittaniques were killed or wounded.
Depeche AFP April 24, 2009: "The Australian Minister for Veterans visited Wednesday in northern France. At Fromelles, 10 km from Lille and 20 000 km from Sydney, the small square of a tender green , enclosed by a thin white line, encloses a section of the Australian memory. There, on the edge of the woods, four hundred Allied soldiers lie pell-mell under two meters of the heavy Northern Land. Many had gone through the whole Earth to be mowed down with machine guns coming out of a trench 19 and July 20, 1916. The Germans had laid the body in eight mass graves. The last shovelful thrown, they had meticulously recorded the facts in a report, in turn quickly buried. "
Stories reports, traces, borders, then I'm invading on other work that I should shut up here .. . But related to my vision, I think, territory and landscape. In report. Narrow. Innermost. My notion same landscape, with its hidden history in the flatness of the horizon, where nothing protrudes from the line up except for some cross raised, lined, full and slender, my syntax is rubbing the rhythm of the verse, the crossovers are seeking the image of a lower leg sliced impossible except by digging ...
I returned to my canoe, crossing other territories, the chalk garden of my grandmother, I made a bunch of gypsum and blue thistles.
From zero level of writing I did not invent anything ...
I painted the keel of the Swallow. The oxidized copper plate just hatched her story: Jean Georges
Seyler, carpenter, settled in 1860 in Courbevoie, National dock, at the corner of Adelaide Street near the bridge. Manufacturer of recreational boats, he's guarding dry and water as well as rental. It also has a flow drinking held by his wife and rented furnished rooms. He received awards and medals at the exhibition of 1889 and the grand prize in Paris in 1910.
He has seven children: Charles (died young), Mary, who remained unmarried, oversees the affairs of the house, and five sons: George, Ernest (b. 1866), Eugene and Emile Henry, who followed in his footsteps .
sailing enthusiasts, they are members of the circle sailing Asnières which they participate, including a boat-like "ocean" in many races between 1885 and 1897. Their boats are named: Hummingbird, Lucifer, Rose.
About 1895, boating in Lower Seine no longer seems to offer opportunities for new manufacturers. His three elder son, George, Ernest and Eugene, each decide their turn to penetrate between the Marne and Joinville Le Perreux where business grows.
Seyler father George, died around 1915-1920 (?) His wife will continue the construction with the help of his two youngest son, Emile and Henry remained in Courbevoie, signing boats called "Widow Seyler.
The eldest son, George, moved in 1897 to Lagny sur Marne (1 Quai de l'Artois) at the foot of the viaduct of Nogent. He signed his boats "Elder George Seyler. Ambitious and energetic, his business is booming until about 1960. He builds skiffs, sculls, canoes and Canadian French, sailboats, motor boats, and outboard runabout and exhibited regularly at the Paris Boat Show. Note that in 1904 the first race motorboat organized by the International Sporting Club of Monaco was won on a hull Seyler name "clover" (Richard Brasier engine). In the years 1925-1930, it has a showroom in Nice. On the Marne in 1920, he landed three comfortable motor boats 10-12 m with which he offers to "tourists" walking tours around the islands between Perranporth and Joinville. He married
Josephine, who gave him a daughter, Georgette, born in 1898 who remained unmarried.
the death of his father, circa 1940, Georgette continued business with the help of his foreman Mr. Deville. In the 1960s, cases are not as good, their boats while wood does not stand up to competition from plastic shells. In 1965, Georgette dies and the company disappears.
The swallow is bordered by Oregon pine, with decorative mahogany lath lath and tile (the highest and off) in Red Cedar, Beech frames and bridges, the rest in Ash, with the draft of bridges and girders, bent in Pine steam.
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