WHEN BIRDS FLY BACKWARDS

WHEN BIRDS FLY BACKWARDS

Angoulême 2025

I would describe to you a picture. You stand by the window, like in an old film. The day is warm and gentle, the sun spills over the buildings, and cars pass along Tolbiac, down the river of concrete — a river without meaning. You heal me again, like a woman who blooms only when no one looks.

I would describe to you a picture. The scent of coffee fills our room. The sound of an accordion carries all the crazy years behind it. Colors of the shops, madness in hues, people passing like ants, but their traces are big and heavy. A child’s ball, as big as the moon, floats across the sky. Someone sings Brel, someone plays guitar, and birds fly backwards. We laugh at it — but you more than I. Because your eyes know what mine cannot understand.

I would describe to you a picture. On the balconies, flowers grow without asking; lilac flows like a purple waterfall, iris gazes at the sky, and hyacinths gently sway. The restaurants are full again — people eat, drink, and talk about the same things, repeating like clocks. They speak again and again... And birds fly backwards while tulips remain silent, guarding the thoughts we never said.

I would describe to you a picture. In the distance, sirens wail, and broken voices of older people on the streets seem to chase away time... And children, children searching for their voice, their small, lost, and distant world. Just like us. Here, on Tolbiac. Here, where everything rushes and everything stands still at the same time, in one day that lasts and lasts...

I would describe to you a picture. The air thickens again with insomnia, with waiting, with everything that happened and didn’t. Everything stands on the edge. Merchants hold their heads in their hands again. A woman yawns in the laundry. The postman drags himself slowly. People at the bus stop roll their eyes. The pharmacy is crowded. The restaurants have no seats left. Someone waves... now everyone waves... But are they waving to us? Or just for the sake of waving?

I would describe to you a picture. A wedding passes down the main street. The brass band blares. Girls dance barefoot in white dresses in the courtyard below us. The newlyweds laugh as if nothing else exists. Confetti falls like soft rain. Everything comes back again. The air thickens. But nobody cares. People wave... poets wave... wanderers, musicians, dealers, pimps, drivers, dogs, cats — everyone waves... But are they waving to us? Or just for the sake of waving?

Night slowly falls. People return to their shelters. You are still on the balcony. You watch the distant lights, then the sky above Paris, one spring, one April.

I would describe to you a picture. But why... You have already seen it. I painted it only for you. We laugh again... but you more than I. Because your smile is more beautiful than mine.