Dirty Diary
I know this, and I know you. We are all voyeurs. We love it when it gets personal — and you are no different. So here is a more personal post about how I keep track of things that happen to me.
I have these dirty diaries. A lot of these. Collecting artistic memories began when I was a student, using 35 mm slides. Then, at university, I started writing in a notebook, and I have never stopped.
How did I started it? I was inspired by the reading of The Andy Warhol Diaries, a dictated memoirs of the artist, collected each morning by Pat Hackett on her answering machine. I wanted this.
Today, I have finished the notebook number sixty-seven. Every ending is a new beginning. Each of them has a title on the first page, this one is named “Escapade” and relate my recent stay in Europe.
One page at a time
I cherish all these dirty diaries. Over time, it has become my most precious possession. The one you put in a fireproof safe (well, now there are too many to stand all in there.) — my ink blood.
My phone, like yours, is filled with my daily life pics. Too much of them. But what really takes me back in time are these hand-crafted pages made up of life sketches, personal notes and glued bills.
As I am a bit of a mono-maniac, I always used the same type of notebook and biro pen to collect my souvenirs. A special notebook with 50 numbered carbonless squared sheets in 2 copies.
I have selected the most arty pages for you, completed with some notes. The subject of my research here was the cabaret life, inspired by the artist George Grosz and the Berlin life in 1920s.
I hope you enjoyed this personal story from my archives. I wanted to talk about this topic for a long time, as I use them extensively to write and draw original ideas that I will publish here later.
We are all just looking for something real, but I believe, sometimes, having the chance to escape in our secret garden, is a pure bliss. And, to know me a bit more, here’s my bi-monthly newsletter:
And remember every day — carpe diem.
Extreme seductiveness is at the boundary of horror.
Georges Bataille, Story of the Eye