With their unique pen and their own sensitivity, artists present their vision of the world around us. This week, we are giving carte blanche to Mégan Brouillard.
I’m polite to people I hate.
I wasn’t built to be in The Press. I ‘googled’ the verb failed earlier. To check my spelling, I googled: “verb fahit conjugation”. Me, generally, I’m more of the voice message type.
Personally, I think the guy at The Press who gave me carte blanche should lose his jobbut that is a very personal opinion.
Give me carte blanche in The Press, it’s like exhibiting the drawings of a 4-year-old child at the Museum of Fine Arts. It’s fine, but it’s not related.
Where I come from, we don’t write in The Pressbut when we invite you, you go!
With us, it’s not so much that we handle the language, more that we play with words. Sometimes to prove himself right, sometimes to get the better of him, often both. I was built by people who talk loudly, who laugh loudly and who love loudly.
I was not brought up in cotton wool. I was brought up in mineral wool, it’s warmer, but it stings more. It stings with us. It stings, it scratches, it “roasts”.
I’m glad I grew up in mineral wool because it gave me an insulating layer. I have the rind that is capable of taking it. I would even say that I have the rind that wants to take it. We achale those we love, me, I love a lot and I love very much. I was taught to fool others, but above all to fool myself.
Mineral wool, we call it “insolent wool”. I grew up in insolence, but insolence the fun. Charming people, but arrogant, proud and silly. People who don’t take themselves seriously even when they take themselves seriously.
This means that the people I love, I push them, I sting them, I “challenge” them.
What I say to your face will not resonate in your back. We laugh at our failings instead of blaming them.
I come from a country where you say “fuck it” when you are extremely happy with good news. We have vulgar pride and ribald pleasure. What do you want me to tell you, that’s how it is!
When my cousin comes back to us with the promotion she’s been working hard on for two years, the “well, fuck it” leaves our lips, her eyes full of pride.
Then we say “Ah, well done! to the other one, the tiresome brother-in-law who tells us about his Mercedes of the year and who doesn’t want to dirty his shoes during the firewood chore in the fall.
One says “ let’s see therefore, old madwoman, have you become senile when someone receives us to supper like kings.
We say “thank you, that’s too nice” for a chicken meal as dry as table discussions.
We have barbaric happiness. Everything civil hides boredom. Anything smooth lacks character.
Like I said: I’m polite to people I hate.
The day I tell you that your hat is beautiful, that your coat is chic, that your sweater suits you well, you will know that we are not friends.
The day I laugh at your shoes, know that you will be part of my close guard.
If I tell you that your coat makes you look like a nice, well-dressed asshole, you’ll tell me, “Thank you, that’s a big compliment.” »
In a fondue, the foods I poke at first are my favourites. I never stab broccoli. I hate broccoli. Prawns, for example, I give them a rinse.
I attack my relatives, so some think I am waging war on my enemies.
But I, my enemies, want to spend as little time as possible thinking about them.
My friends, I will do theses on their faults. PowerPoints on their lack of taste. I won’t leave them alone.
The people I don’t like, I don’t fool them. I find it hard to roast someone I don’t like, for fear of hurting, for fear of being too real.
With those close to me, I’m real, even though I’m not afraid to exaggerate reality to be more punchy. I ask as much of them and I’m always served.
For me, the worst tribute is to throw bland, thornless flowers for fear of scratching the recipient. I want to receive the complete rose.
My worst nightmare: end my days without anyone to suck me off.
There are people who want to be remembered after their death, for their death to be mourned, for their memory to pass through time.
Me, I want that when I die, all that remains is friends and family who still find the word to fool me even in the coffin.
As I get older, I am more and more grateful to come from where I come from. From a place that deflates heads, that keeps both feet on the ground, that may lack politeness, but that will never miss an important moment for you. Of the world who will call you “the artist” to fool you party Christmas, but who will be in the front row to applaud you on the evening of your first solo show or your first gala.
Because the rest of us are the same, we are polite to the people we hate and we are there for the people we love.
All that to say, The Pressyou are sick esti, it was disgusting to do that with you!