L'une des erreurs que commet l'Europe, cet indispensable instrument de paix né de la seconde catastrophe mondiale, c'est d'avancer paradoxalement, en niant la mémoire des nations qui la composent. La première fois que je m'en suis rendu compte, ce fut au moment du passage à l'euro. Les monnaies nationales disparaissaient sans que soit posée la question de leur mémoire. Or chacune était assortie d'un imaginaire très fort, d'un passé souvent très ancien. Ce changement fut sans doute vécu comme une violence informulée par beaucoup de gens, un acte administratif glacial. La mémoire de mon pays fait partie de mon identité ; elle me constitue. 

Enfant, je n'ai jamais aussi bien voyagé qu'en pesant un shilling, une pièce de 100 lires, ou en prononçant le mot pesetas. Ce petit rond de métal, ce mot qui le représente, ont une valeur synecdotique. En supprimant le mot, c'est le pays tout entier que l'on supprime ! 

C'est pourquoi j'ai toujours regretté que l'euro, ce mot idiot et laid car sans mémoire, ne soit pas réservé au taux monétaire lui-même, ce qui aurait permis aux nations de conserver dans un premier temps, ce petit bout d'eux-mêmes qu'est le nom de leur monnaie, tout en vivant de façon concrète l'Europe. Idem pour les frontières : leur disparition, alors que leur mémoire n'est ni suscitée, ni entretenue, participe du repli que l'on observe partout. Pour que vive l'Europe, cet outil de mémoire agissante, il faut que l'Europe se souvienne que les nations qui la constituent sont elles-mêmes d'énormes blocs de mémoire partagée. 

In the year 1974, my father Francis and his associate Jacques decided to extend their real estate business and start a sport car franchise. They contacted Alfa Romeo, since you couldn't buy these cars in the south of Alsace at this time. A few months after the Alfa Romeo launch, they added the Porsche franchise. It was possible for Francis to use the new cars; they were then sold a bit cheaper as "voiture de direction". When I was a kid, we had the most beautiful sport cars, the Porsche Carrera, the Alfa Romeo Montreal, without owning them. I had an experience the kids at school didn't have : the huge acceleration of the Porsche Carrera, sticking your body on your seat, blocking your breath. They could see me in a new one every week, and thought we were extremeley wealthy. My father's favorite was the Alfa Romeo GT 2000. He said that this is the most dangerous car ; the only time he could have lost life occured while driving the small GT 2000, because it didn't hold the road (elle ne tient pas la route). But it was our favorite model, probably because of the combination of sound / shape / power. This car recalls me the summer of 1974, when Francis suddenly decided to take my elder brother and me to the Côte d'Azur, driving at an extremey fast pace. The Alfa Romeo GT 2000 is still my favorite car. I'm always happy when I see one, even if it's also Pier Paolo Pasolini's last car.  

It has never been easy to be an artist, especially when you're a two headed artist, and when it comes to 3 heads, it's like playing chess while skiing while changing your shoes. In the young generation, many are poly-talented artists; to be a musician, a critic, a graphic designer and a banana peeler has become normal. 'Courir plusieurs lièvres à la fois' is a current survival practice. Max Jacob, poet and painter, suffered from his double activity. Today, what would he say amongst artists with 3,4,5 or more activities ? In the past I thought I will be considered a dilettante, being a poet, a musician, plus a filmaker (since 2008). Someone told me, when you're poly-talented, you're not using all the tools on the shelves, like someone who's focused on a single practice. You don't have enough time for that. What you need is to know exactly what every tool is made for, and go straight to the one you need, ignoring the others. To know what the tools are made for is called culture. This is probably the only way to become competent in different fields : to know, to have enough culture. 

Yesterday I realized why it's so important for me to make an album (the prepared public) with a fake piano, an approximative sound coming from electronic keyboards, while thinking about onomatopeia. An onomatopeia is a code in which the real sound has nothing to do with the reality of the sound it's supposed to transcript. The duck doesn't make 'coin coin', but everyone in France knows that 'coin coin' means the duck sound. We all share this code, which is different from other countries. It is exactly the same with approximative sounds coming from the keyboard. We all know this sound is the piano, while the Steinway is light years away from the synth. We share the same code. My next album is about how we interact with approximative codes, with 'le degré zéro de la reconnaissance mutuelle'. We don't need the real duck, the onomatopeia 'coin coin' is enough. The public is prepared to identify the code, he's able to rebuild the Steinway, recreate the duck. There is no need to fill the flag with an image, to capitalize on completion, the flag itself means that there is a country.