“Lone child / Seul d’enfant” is a series of sculptures that explore the modalities of visual narrative through a juxtaposition of illustrative miniatures and textual fragments. The work reflects on childhood memories, boredom and solitude. All the models are designed on a scale of 1:16.
I’m playing marbles, on the pavement, in front of the door that’s been left ajar. It doesn’t have a handle, a strong draft can lock you out. It’s sunny probably, still slightly warm. I brought my marbles with me, the ones inherited from a cousin, discovered in a shoe-box in the basement. Agates, pépites, galots, galaxies, terre, flamme, araignée, boulet… My favorites are the petrol with the iridescent hues of rain puddles under the cars. You don’t see those everyday, just like rainbows. There aren’t so many people walking down the street, and anyhow, they’ll simply have to step over us.
I have a favorite step to sit down and wait. The electricity meter is spinning, the radiator is gurgling, I’m doing and undoing the snap fastener on my grandpa’s flat cap. Amongst objects, we observe each other. I’m sulking and waiting ; in the way, like dogs do, so I won’t be left behind. Sometimes I pick another step but I never go up. In the semidarkness illuminated by the street, through the blurred pane of the entrance door ; evening light or lamppost depending on the season. I can hear the muted voices in the kitchen. I open the door to whoever comes knocking. “Well what on earth are you doing here?”. Nothing that needs answering. I end up going on my step by myself, just to make time pass.
I open the tap and let water flow on the cups in the sink. The guests are chatting in the living room. The left-over coffee dilutes and hurtles down the plates’ lips. The room, which usually is the beating heart of the house, is unusually deserted. I’m there, killing time, playing with water. From the living room it looks like I’m doing the dishes. “I have a good grand-son” says my grandma to the ones assembled there.
If it’s sunny and not too cold, I borrow the large magnifier that grandpa uses to study the horse races in the newspaper, and I go play arsonist. I dive in the blue bin, the one for recycling, that’s nearly as tall as me. The solicitor’s newsletter goes up in flames the easiest with its property ads and its glazed paper ; that and the supermarket’s advertisings. I can hear the neighbors’ daughters in the garden beside. Eyes fixated on the dot of concentrated light. I can barely see a thing when I get back to the half-light inside the house.
I finished my homework a while ago already. Here they have the cartoon channel we don’t have back home. Grandma make me a slice of bread with butter, sometimes with powdered chocolate on top. While I wait to be picked up, I’m zapping. In addition to being encased in a shockproof foamy case, the remote control is wrapped up in plastic film, like leftovers in the fridge, so it doesn’t get dirty. They’re having a drink in the kitchen and it’s dragging on. There’s nothing good on TV anymore… Nothing for it but to wait for my father to thump on the wall between us, telling it’s time to get going.
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