Description

<p>Why write another solo show when there's so much to say and so much pleasure to be found in collective creations? Because solitude offers freedom of tone and rhythm; it means answering to no one except the audience and one's own dignity. A solo performance guarantees the freedom to truly do what you want, to give form to the intimate.<br><br> But what a hell this solitude is! These doubts, these questions you ask the mirror, only to have the same questions thrown back at you. What a stupid mirror! Madness is never far away when your own voice answers itself, then answers itself, then...shh, be quiet! To avoid becoming a mad hermit, nothing beats being part of a group!<br><br> Ah, the collective! It's about exchange, complementarity, the assurance of not blindly committing to a single path, a sharing of emotions, failures, and joys. The collective opens everyone's eyes, explores larger spaces fueled by a greater number of neuroses, boosted by varied desires. And then there's this confrontation with others, which confronts one's Self with the World and vice versa—that's real life, the life that shapes society and an individual's identity. We only build the Self within the We.<br><br> But groups, what a nightmare! It's the obligation to submit to collective agreements that we find stupid, it's accepting to slow down to wait and be overtaken by people crazier than ourselves. The little old lady who puts her suitcase down right at the train exit, mmm; the family that presses itself against the baggage carousel at Orly, grrrrr; the reception staff at a cultural center who haven't read the information sheet properly, aargg...but I digress.</p><p> It's a constant negotiation over everything and nothing, and having to put up with the fact that others don't understand what's going on in your head because they're not there, too busy being in their own. How tedious these clashing neuroses are, these anxieties trampling each other, these clumsy capoeira battles of identical solitudes.<br><br> This solitude throws us, like suffocating, starving infants, into the abyssal cold of the unknown, making us dependent on others for survival. And all our lives we will try to assert an identity that doesn't exist without others, at the heart of a human group that doesn't know itself and searches for itself in this continuum of solitude and crowd, attempting to live in balance. Between large festive gatherings where the illusion of being thousands of like-minded souls vibrating in unison creates new churches, and workshops and advice on the art of withdrawing from the world to find oneself, we are lost.<br><br> The portraits would be numerous, too many to describe and embody all the forms of solitude that make up our world. There is almost one for everyone, formed from our deepest identity and our social roles. In this new narrative, I would like to explore this fundamental subject: the feeling of solitude that resides within each of us and its confrontation with the desire for community, but also with the anxiety of being consumed, drowned by that same community.<br><br> It is almost a third epic tale, part of an "existentialist" triptych. After the one about this solitary race in the middle of a human herd, seeking around his pride something greater than himself (The Tragedy of Bib Number 512) and that of the man who isolated himself to flee who wakes up to try to conquer an inaccessible star, the one that all the others will look at with amazement (The Sublime Sabotage).</p><p> A new adventure then, a burlesque one, on the road to Self.</p> "Solitoudinnée" (provisional title, bizarre but explicit... right?) A tragicomic one-man show inspired by the novel "La valse des timides".