A bit of cement smeared on brick; a triangle of light cast on a wall; a crack; a bundle of thistle stalks in a plastic bag: all of them have funny little eyes, all of them have a personality. They are sad, pensive, bored, worried. With equal doses of humor and melancholy, Les petites choses explores our cognitive capacity to personify almost any object, while at the same time documenting the sorry remains of oversight, process, waste: that which is nothing, but still, stubbornly, is something.
The petites choses are also stand-ins for us humans, similarly to the meidosems of Belgian poet Henri Michaux. Their loneliness, the absurdity of their existence, is also our own. Likewise, they speak to those who live on the margins of society, as invisible as they are uncomfortable for the rest. They are the forgotten, the unimportant: flotsam in the eddies along the banks of the river of productivity. The sad, pensive thistle stalk in its bag; the men and women who burrow into their found blankets outside the doors of my studio.