If artists could honk their horns, they wouldn’t choose the street to be heard. They would do it on the stage, in showrooms or concert halls. The human voice of the actors would rise in the theatres; the visual arts would animate the walls, floor and ceiling of soothing places; the music would vibrate the space around intimate or huge rooms. This is what they would do, what they would have done, the artists.
But they couldn’t. How many of them have remained cloistered at home for two years, without being able to disseminate their works, their work, their passion. How many have given up their profession or lost their job, or have never been able to exercise their art at the end of their training, how many have even committed suicide, invaded by despair? They remained silent the whole time, ignored, while the trucks continued to drive the economy. […].
This is what strikes me, saddens me and worries me today. The contrast between noise and silence. Between what is tolerated and what is gagged. Between the great means of small frustration and the impotence of great pain. Between the tolerance of social aggression and the ignorance of those who were sacrificed.
The show today is in the street. Disturbing. The frustration is strangely festive, unbridled, vulgar and racist, some would say… A theater of the absurd with the smell of barbecue and diesel. We don’t know when this will end.
We are waiting for Godot or Trudeau. But in both cases, we don’t know who it is.
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