A few words

Below a selection of seven drawings, made between 2021 and 2022, and part of a larger collection — eight years of sketches, lines and shapes, often accompanied by texts — that continues today, recounting a dream, a fantasy and daydreaming.

Only recently digitised, as a new project — a new journey — begins.

For some time, I have wondered how contemporary AI image-generation tools condense, rework, fuse, and reinterpret years of personal and intimate drawings, feelings, dreams, and hidden meanings. Can I return afresh with new instruments and discern old patterns within new ones? Might a system trained on a partial representation of my archive — an index of my unconscious — serve as a means to set out again, perhaps by a new way along the royal road? What might such a machine reveal about the past from the vantage of the present? And how might this new way of seeing help me look to today and tomorrow as the work continues to unfold?

Why images rather than text or speech? Writing, like speech, often feels restrictive: perhaps because I was trained in how to write — which words to use or avoid — and compelled to develop a specific style; or perhaps through self‑censorship, a reluctance to cast specific dreams or thoughts into the certainties of words; or perhaps to escape the ambiguities of language and trust the certainty of the image — if an image is a certainty at all. Or perhaps because it is harder to hide in images — in their fragments and pieces — or simply because I work better visually. Through images, I feel freer from style, rules, and conventions; after all, I was trained outside classicism. No one taught me how to draw or to make an image — it just came naturally.

I keep every drawing, whether I like it or not; each is a reflection, a deflection, a refraction — ultimately an inflexion — of lived moments within a segment of my life. I do not read the written words; I look at the images, and I sense at once. I do not need to read to understand, to retrace or to datafy; I need only to see and sense.

Kierkegaard x Jung: life is marginalia, written in the moment, really comprehensible only on the last page. Dreams set the iris between; as it narrows and opens, what I won’t recognise within appears outside as fate, and what I bring to light returns as choice. Therefore, I keep drawing the night’s images so that I step into tomorrow as a day I choose.