“EVERY PORTRAIT IS A SELF-PORTRAIT IN DISGUISE.” – MATHIEU LACA

When I was born, I was thirty years old. 

I learned youth late and by correspondence. 

My excuse: I grew up stuck between a mother whose softness would make daisies pale by comparison and a father whose temper was as stable as the one of an arena bull. 

The result: I killed in myself the idea of the world. I shot myself away in my room to read French literature classics with, on my lips, the smile of a bomb layer. 

I had the morality of Camus’ Outsider and the hope in life of a Nirvana song. I laid down in the field waiting to be decomposed. 

Failed: I was still alive. 

One day, two teachers noticed me and introduced me to art. 

It was a revelation. 

To draw. 

To paint. At last I could be. Pure fantasy. Incidentally, it appeared that I was gay. 

Since then, I practice regularly. I even corrupted into marriage one of those teachers whose rebellion I was fond of. 

How mean I am! 

Against all expectations, my paintings started to sell. 

Ha! 

People snap up my textured faces. Ha! Ha! 

Every day in the studio, along a big dog sleeping and a husband who makes his mandolin sing, I make my deliciously appalling images and I plan to continue for a very long time. 

Ha! Ha! Ha!

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