Those pages are secret traces of a meditation on what is possible, that is to say on the language of art. No Word, no schetch there that results of a thought prior to it: all of them are withnesses of the permanent improvisation of life. Those fragments belong both to the latent ressources of reality and to the mysteries of dreams. They are born in the immediate feeling of the paper's skin, in the flow of the liquid on the pages, in the contrast between ink or charcoal with this cellulose playground. A world's purpose is to give birth to other worlds. About those lines, those sketches, the only certainty is that they have been drawn.