I would like to take advantage of the fact that we have allocated in The Press the score of 8.5 to the last play in which I participated (The son, by Florian Zeller, presented at the venerable Théâtre du Rideau Vert) to decry this new rating scale that the world of arts and literature must undergo; so you can’t accuse me of being driven by a feeling of revenge or by any frustration.
Posted at 1:00 p.m.
I would like to reiterate that I have chosen a means of expression where it is possible that twice two equals nine (unfortunately except in our administrative reports) and I personally find it unfortunate and deplorable that quantification is so infantilizing creative works before qualifying them with analysis, intelligence and sensitivity with words, impressions and ideas. While in schools, we are increasingly encouraging the fact of dropping the numerical marks, the A’s and the E’s, in favor of a more in-depth study of the particularities of each and every one and of more sensitive accompaniment, here that we attribute and reduce artistic gestures with an appreciation based on a system of ratings just as laughable and paternalistic as the stars that we have suffered for too long already.
Art is not a bowling alley where six pins have fallen and four remain in reserve; I don’t score goals, not playing against anyone; my level of oxygen saturation in the blood informs me adequately about my state of health and I have enough numbers in my life without undergoing them in my role as creator. My job is to invent worlds where you want to believe that everything is still possible and where sixteen divided by three equals a thousand suns.