Manuela Morgaine

Simon Fieschi est mort le 17 octobre à 40 ans. Il était le webmaster du journal satirique français Charlie Hebdo quand les terroristes sont venus tuer tous les dessinateurs le 7 janvier 2015. Il a pris la première balle tirée en pleine colonne vertébrale et a résisté  dix ans. Il s’est confronté avec humour et rage aux terroristes pendant les procès et était toujours aux côtés des victimes d’attentats. Je l’ai connu enfant. Puis grand, puis grand handicapé survivant.

Simon Fieschi  died on October 17, 2024 at the age of 40. He was the webmaster of the French satirical newspaper Charlie Hebdo when the terrorists came to kill all the cartoonists on January 7, 2015. He took the first bullet fired into his spine and resisted for ten years. He confronted the terrorists with humor and rage during the trials and was always by the side of the victims of attacks. I knew him as a child. Then as a grown-up, then as a disabled survivor.

C’est la 200 ème semaine que nous existons, avons ouvert une fenêtre qui ne se referme jamais. Ici c’était dans l’atelier d’Emma W. un de ces quatre étés que nous avons partagé. Garder cette fenêtre d’atelier d’artiste ouverte sur l’horizon, le monde, me permet d’y assembler les pensées infinies inestimables, les utopies infinies inestimables, les espoirs infinis inestimables, les combats infinis inestimables, les formes infinies inestimables, les sentiments infinis inestimables, les désirs infinis inestimables. Cette fenêtre est comme une page d’écriture mais aussi comme un coffre-fort ouvert, qui peut contenir & offrir tout l’infini inestimable.

This is the 200th week that we’ve existed, opened a window that never closes. Here it was in Emma W. studio, one of those four summers we shared. Keeping this artist’s studio window open to the horizon, to the world, allows me to assemble the priceless infinite thoughts, the priceless infinite utopias, the priceless infinite hopes, the priceless infinite struggles, the priceless infinite forms, the priceless infinite feelings, the priceless infinite desires. This window is like a page of writing, but also like an opened safe, that can contain & offer all the priceless infinite.

These brown mists which invade our world, overwhelm ideals and freedoms, these brown mists which veil our continents all the way to the moon, these brown mists which are darkness of death. Have we reached the bottom of inhumanities and totalitarianism to rebuild a new world?

Un poignard pour scier les barreaux de ta cellule, un poignard pour mettre fin à ta vie prisonnière, un poignard pour aiguiser ta révolte, un poignard pour fendre ta solitude, un poignard pour graver les jours qui passent, pour écrire, pour blesser, pour te défendre, pour crier en silence, pour donner à voir ton vrai visage, pour avouer tout le sang coulé, pour le faire couler encore, un poignard en lame de résistance.

A dagger to saw the bars of your cell, a dagger to put an end to your prisoner life, a dagger to sharpen your revolt, a dagger to break through your solitude, a dagger to engrave the days that pass, to write, to wound, to defend yourself, to scream in silence, to show your true face, to admit all the blood shed, to make it flow again, a dagger as a blade of resistance.

No doubt it was necessary for the whole world, for not a single part of our world to be representable for me to have the idea of ​​making a postcard. There was there, in this unique moment, a semblance of peace, of plenitude, without anyone, and at the same time a theatricality reduced to beach deckchairs representing the human horde. In front of these empty beach chairs, I wondered how many of us would still be alive this summer of 2024. So, on the back of the postcard I would have written: “Dear sky, dear mountains, dear sea, thank you for still offering us your landscape as the world burns and humanity shrinks. I am now sky, mountains, sea, sand and belong to you”.