A memory, an image obsesses me: the memory of a recurring dream, where I discover at home, in the cellar or in the living room, in drawers or old boxes, either superb photos that I took years ago and had completely forgotten, or cassettes with old and forgotten songs – and the feeling of rediscovering a treasure, something dearer than anything else, that I had lost and was not even aware of the loss, but that finding it again makes me "complete".

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A vague, indescribable impression, a ghost of memory, that of the old cassettes, of their distant sound drowned in the hiss, the sound image alone of buried memories, ineffable, hidden under tons of "noise".

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An image, that of myself as a teenager, reading comic books and art books, writing role-playing games and short stories. And the feeling of having thrown away or lost the essence of all these manuscripts (of which I still see the squares of school notebooks and the blue ink, of a crazy sensuality in these computer times) which also constitute a loss, but also a treasure to be sought, to be hoped for.

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My dreams of exhumed cassettes or diskettes, containing fabulous unpublished material or simply making me rediscover a forgotten facet of my work – and therefore of myself, of my past – have been countless over the last twenty years. I imagine that they tell me only one thing: you must continue, you must realize what you dreamed of artistically in your youth and that, because of material impossibility, lack of time, energy or seriousness, you did not carry out.