Olivier Sultan

They came, on foot, by bicycle, by plane: standing, straight. Enameled with a thousands upon thousands of threads of gold, tied up, concentrated. They saw, the cataracts of Zimbabwe, the red waves of Benin, straight, steep, dignified. “I’m fine if you’re fine,” they say, when they meet, clapping their hands. The inner wounds have pierced the surface, and a thousand little nails bear witness to these struggles to become what they are. Their suitcases contain the lives of these anonymous travelers. Passing witnesses, on the edge of a dusty track in Bulawayo, or on a market in Montreuil. From Mzilikadzi, from Shaka, to Mandela. Rights. Little by little, their lives have grown there, inside.

A tenfold, concentrated energy, which digs its heart, collects, in there. No special effects. Double life, triple life of objects, of beings. I advance slowly, I look, I greet. “I slept well if you slept well”, clap clap clap with clasped hands, as in a joyful prayer. In Harare, Saint-Ouen, Paris, Dakar. The same little gestures. The little nails that bind us. Who take care of us. Here and now. A thousand golden threads that make a being.