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Atlante dell'Arte Contemporanea 2021 - De Agostini Editore

Waiting.

by Sylvie Renault | 30 May 2010 | Me

Life is a time of waiting. To see the light before being born, to learn to eat before leaving the breast, to begin to speak before ceasing to whimper, to walk after only crawling. Life is a time of waiting. And I wait to gain wisdom, to find love, to have financial stability, to see my merits recognized, to have justice. I wait for a secure job. I wait to understand what security is. Life is a time of waiting, and even though those around me try to convince me that money will get me everything, I will still have to wait to accumulate it so I can delude myself that I no longer have to wait. So I buy nothing, but wait for the bus to come, for the rain to stop, for the sun to return, and when it has returned I wait for night to come again. I wait for summer to arrive, and when it gets too hot I eagerly wait once more for winter to come. I wait. Because life is a time of waiting. And when I was little I waited to grow up, when I was a teenager I waited to become an adult, and now that I am an adult… I wait to grow old. When I am old I will wait to die. Because life is a time of waiting. And pay no heed to anyone who wants to charge you for a ticket to stop waiting. Even if you managed it, you would lose the profound meaning of your life. Waiting.

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But that is friendship.

by Sylvie Renault | 10 May 2010 | Me

I have a special friend. A friend who has made many mistakes in his life, as I have in mine. To each their own. But that is part of what makes him special. I have a courageous friend. A friend who, despite his weaknesses, has always tried to overcome them by accepting them. I have a friend who has been heavily criticized, by all of you. But none of you has truly known him. I have watched him grow every day of his life while I grew in mine. That is why I know who he is, what he feels, and he knows what I feel. I cannot help this friend, I can only listen to him, give him my support, and he can give me his by listening to me. But that is friendship. Being there. Despite the problems in your own life. Being there. Despite the sorrows and obligations that weigh on us. Being there. Even when it feels more natural to think only of yourself, being there.

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Artistic Subscription - Rinassense open gallery

Artistic Subscription - Rinassense open gallery

by Sylvie Renault | 8 May 2010 | Exhibitions, News

On June 17 and July 29, 2010, I will exhibit some of my paintings at the Rinasssense open gallery, Lungotevere Garibaldi, Rome, alongside the nightlife of Estate Romana, with live painting performances as part of the "Sottoscrizione Artistica" project and photography performances as part of the Play4* project "Nessun Bavaglio". We look forward to seeing you from 19:30 until late into the night! Don't miss it!

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Draft

by Sylvie Renault | 4 Mar 2010 | Me

I'll get over it. In the end, all I do is ask myself whether I am so used to a certain kind of pain that I hardly feel like crying anymore, or whether I simply deny myself that, because it isn't worth it anyway. A loss is a loss. There is nothing that can fill the void. No tear will ever soften it. Only life and energy can. But not erase it, quiet it. What angers me most is this stupid assumption we all make. Tomorrow. We keep putting off things that could make us feel good to build other things we don't even know whether we'll live to see. And I'm the first to do it. But every time I lose someone I realize how stupid this is, even if it is inevitable. It is this conflict that drives me crazy. I don't want to give up my goals, but neither do I want to give up the chance to fall in love, feel good, spend time with my friends, relax, live my life. I only have this one, and I don't even know for how long. Several weeks ago I had a date with a guy I really like a lot; I was excited, happy. Leaving the office, with my earphones in, I crossed the street as usual, but the traffic light malfunctioned, giving both pedestrians and cars a green light, and nearly got me run over by a truck. If he hadn't braked in time, I would have died on the spot. It didn't happen, and things never happen by chance. I realized that I had done the right thing and, although I already knew it, that life is a moment and it is worth playing every card you have if you care about something, even if you don't know why you care. When he had disappeared I had two choices: get pissed off and retreat into my pride, or try. And for the first time in my life, I left the door open. It was a strange feeling because despite everything… air was coming through! Because that is what an open door does, isn't it? A draft. It lets energies flow. And like the wind of a winter storm, he came back into my life that evening. When I nearly died under a truck. But it didn't happen. It was not his destiny to spend months

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Will you give me your number?

by Sylvie Renault | 14 Feb 2010 | Me

It’s late afternoon, edging into evening, when my mobile rings. I answer: “Yes, hello?”. A young woman’s thin voice says coldly: “Will you give me your number?” Her tone annoys me, and then I think, “But you called me, so why the hell are you asking for my number?”. Assuming it’s a prank, I look at the phone and hang up without saying anything. About ten minutes later, the home phone rings. I answer. On the other end, the same voice again: “Will you give me your number?”. But firmer and more aggressive. This time I get scared and instinctively hang up. A little later, the intercom buzzes. I’m not expecting anyone. I have a fear, but it seems absurd, so I answer, and from the street the same girl says: “Give me your number!”. More a statement than a question. “Nooo!” I scream into the intercom. And I rush to lock myself in my panic room, which is nothing more than a room with a reinforced door. But before I can close it, they’re already inside, because the girl isn’t alone. She’s with two others, as always. I start running away, racing down the street. And they chase me. The tallest of the three throws petrol at me from a can. He wants to set me on fire. But I think, “To do that, he has to catch me first! He’s slow and heavy, I’m faster and fitter. Besides, petrol evaporates, oil doesn’t!” So I steal a bottle I spot on one of the little tables at the restaurant along the street and throw its contents over him just as he is lighting a torch meant for me. The man starts burning, letting out terrible screams. At last I wake up and think... honestly, I could have just given her that number!

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My man.

by Sylvie Renault | 13 Feb 2010 | Me

My man should be a man, but with the soul, the energy, the desires and the expectations of a boy. Or he should be a boy, but with the courage and confidence of a man. My man should be strong, but gentle, knowing how to protect me as well as pamper me, how to listen as well as set me back on the right path when I lose my way. Because I do lose my way. And I would want my man to point me toward the path I was forgetting. My man should be tall, but not too tall, so I can climb up to kiss him whenever I feel like it…and he doesn't. My man should be tender, romantic, but hate sappiness just as much as I do. Understanding, but uncompromising. Intelligent. My man should be genuinely interested in what I say and what I do, not just to get me into bed. He should love me almost more for my passions than for anything else. He should hang on my every word and lose his head over me when I tell him about my ideas, and bring his energy and contribution to them simply for the pleasure of doing so. As though it were sex, and the product of our work a child. Because he is my man, and the energy born when we are together cannot help but bear fruit. That is what I want. No more compromises.

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Whatever Works.

by Sylvie Renault | 22 Nov 2009 | Me

I don't know what kind of childhood you had, but I grew up at the movies. My father wasn't a man who knew how to deal with a little girl, so, not knowing what to do with me on the days we were supposed to spend together, he would take me either to the amusement park or to the movies. But a whole day at the amusement park cost too much twice a week, so he almost always preferred the movie theater. There, in fact, he could sleep without being disturbed too much, and I could watch the film I had chosen over and over until the usher sent us away because they were closing. So for years, Saturday and Sunday were my favorite days. I loved the movies! If I concentrate, I can still smell the bagged popcorn and the dust of the little red seats I would sink into because my feet couldn't even reach the floor. And so, thanks to those movies I watched more or less 96 days a year, I began living in a world where, in my own mind, I would often speak in the third person about what was happening to me because, like any good film worth its salt, the film of my life certainly couldn't do without a voice-over. “See? I'm the only one who has the big picture! That's what they call genius!” (Basta che funzioni – Woody Allen - 2009) I adored Bud Spencer and Terence Hill, and I don't know how many times I watched and rewatched “Io sto con gli ippopotami”. I think I had him take me throughout its entire theatrical run. My other great passion was the films of Celentano and Pozzetto! “Lui è peggio di me”, which even had them on screen together, was my absolute favorite film, and I think I wore out my seat for that one too. But my father's favorites were romantic films. No fistfights on screen or loud laughter in the theater that might wake him. And so, thanks to the most cynical and couldn't-care-less of men, I grew up to be the last of the romantics. Casablanca, Il Dottor Zivago, Love Story, Via col Vento, Vacanze Romane, Ufficiale gentiluomo, Pretty Woman, Dirty dancing, Harry ti presento Sally. While my mother was at home shouting the anthem “Burn men at the stake!!!”, I grew up with the idea that

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No expectations, no bells, no doves or closing credits.

by Sylvie Renault | 16 Aug 2009 | Me

A friend talked to me about love this evening. The kind that ends after a while, so it's better to tell each other and leave it at that. But I ask you, what kind of love springs up so quickly and vanishes just as fast? Actually, is it love? I love playing the guitar I love feeling the vibration of my voice inside my stomach when I'm singing, and I love the tears in my eyes and the shivers that performing a song gives me I love animals and adore feeling the warmth of their bodies next to mine when they're in the mood for cuddles I love pizza with buffalo mozzarella on top and a little leaf of fresh, freshly picked basil the taste of tomatoes, tart and sweet at the same time the sound of rain falling, but only if I'm under the sheets, preferably cuddling the person I love I love curling up under the covers and feeling the warmth slowly lull me to sleep I love waking up in the morning and lingering a little longer, right up to the very last second of lateness my day can allow me I love making a friend smile, especially when times get tough I love laughing I love my home and everything it represents to me I love writing I love drinking an ice-cold beer while I'm writing I love my eyes when they light up with happiness I love the fact that I never stop hoping I love the smell of the night the smell of snow and the first cold days when winter arrives I love the color of the trees when autumn is ending I love, I love thinking about what I like, what I love and what makes me feel good. But how long did it take me to figure that out? Because it doesn't take much to pick up a warm beer and realize it tastes disgusting. But discovering instead that thoughts flow into sentences faster if, while you write them, you not only quench your soul's thirst but also give your throat something to drink...is a matter of time. Of doing, doing and doing something again, until you understand that you truly love it, in that way and with that one little extra detail, which, what's more, is never the same! Four years ago I left my boyfriend at the time, a

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Something no one will ever be able to take away from me, not even the greatest thief.

by Sylvie Renault | 3 Aug 2009 | Me

My father wasn't a saint. He wasn't a good man. He was an asshole. An alcoholic, cynical, greedy, violent and opportunistic. But he was my father. Not especially handsome, but women fell at his feet all the same because he was terribly sexy. Magnetic. His gaze was his best weapon. He was never there in my life. He never gave a fuck about a rhythmic gymnastics performance of mine, my first communion, or whether I was performing in an operetta reviewed in Corriere della Sera. My father simply wasn't there. And that's why I can remember precisely that once he took me to the gym and another time to the amusement park, with my middle-school classmates, who kept asking me whether he was an idiot because of the strange way he spoke. After all, it was hard for a group of eleven-year-olds to understand that he was simply a drunk man. I'll spare you the bad memories. He was my father. And honestly, I never accepted him for who he was until all I could do was regret that lost opportunity. He spoke 5 languages +1, because, let's be honest, I always suspected that when he made his case in Arabic he was just taking the piss out of me. But despite everything...the greatest lesson I've always carried with me came from him. "Learn languages and you'll be a citizen of the world, learn languages and you'll be free." Not the obvious meaning of what he said, but its exact opposite. Freedom is within us, not in what we do. Nothing that happens to us can truly control us unless we let it. And so...he traveled the world, possessed every woman he desired, had all the money anyone could ever spend in a lifetime, two beautiful daughters...but he was never able to be happy. Because he wasn't free from himself. He was a slave. A slave to his desire for freedom. And he spent his life in the vain attempt to attain something he simply already had. But it's only when you have something you're able to give that no one can take it away from you anymore. They can steal what you have, not who you are. And only those who identify with what they have rather than who they are truly feel robbed. And I, who had never been able to have that man as the father I

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Twin-cylinder desmodromic meditation.

by Sylvie Renault | 22 Jul 2009 | Me

I often ride without a destination. I turn the key, start the engine, switch off my brain. All my concentration is on the road unrolling like an endless ribbon before my eyes. And my brain empties. Focused, present, active, free of thoughts. Twin-cylinder desmodromic meditation. Then at a certain point something happens. Images. Not actual thoughts. Images. Sharp, clear, unmistakable. Smells. Tastes. Sounds. Sensations. The mind drowns in itself. And consciousness begins its cycle again.

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