Les cabanes de Nylso
I draw all the time, when I lie in bed in
In fact, the semi-conscious state in
the morning and as I wait for my moka
which the drawing unfolds is such that
pot to start singing on the stove. And
I can watch a film as the work progress-
again as I sip my coffee, on the bus,
es and all these mental images come
on the train, when I visit the dentist or
back to me, more or less accurate rec-
the doctor, in waiting rooms. Drawing
ollections of huts once glimpsed at for
fills my mind in the best possible way,
half a second through the window of a
it soothes me. Like a sort of meditative
train – mostly old shacks left to decay
practice.
in the middle of fields, sometimes still
And so for a while, pen in hand, the
used to preserve straw for cattle. In Bur-
rhythm, the pace, the world that spins
gundy, I saw the small cottages of wine-
around, nothing really affects me – or
growers and committed them to memory
perhaps everything seeps into me, but
in my travel sketchbooks, alongside the
differently. I no longer endure things,
Corsican “pagliaghju” shelters and the
I feel them, I breathe them in.
guardhouses along the coast of Brittany.
I have a habit of starting off without giv-
For a few critical minutes, I then seek to
ing it much thought. I put on my magni-
turn the lines into a full-fledged picture.
fying glasses, grab my Rotring fineliner
Frenzied and frantic, I finally place the
(an 0.1 mm point) and simply sketch
drawing on a window-ledge and take a
a small, fingerprint-sized shape at the
step back. This time, it’s finished.
centre of my A5 sheet of paper.
I look for my cardboard box full of draw-
As I begin to draw line after line around
ings of trees and huts, I organise it, the
that mark, I alternate between long
train pulls into the station. Another day,
strokes, curved lines, dots and small
another time, I blend into the crowd that
circles that never cross over each other.
steps onto the platform or else I get up,
Caught in the uninterrupted flow and
shave, drive my son to school. Everyday
rhythm of the pen that scratches the
life catches up with me.
white paper with a soft whisper, I look around. I listen, too.
Nylso, December 14th 2021