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We're slowly but surely towards the conclusion of a second week of performances of the play Henry IV programmed by Luigi Pirandello in the Theatre du Trident until February 13. I played the title role in a staging by Marie Gignac. This is my third collaboration ( Cyrano de Bergerac and Dirty Hands ) with this extraordinary director, demanding, but extremely grateful when the job is well done. Throughout our collaboration, we managed it and I develop a very effective method of work that uses our respective spontaneity and based on mutual trust unshaken. Again, each of our exchanges found himself inspired by the generosity of others and I believe that this relationship has allowed us once again to bring audiences a whole show and without compromise. The echoes are also very positive.

I played the role of a mature man who is visited by his den of his love of youth, her lover and a psychiatrist from the stethoscope. This man is unique in that the growing reach of folly for the simple reason that lurks in this place for twenty years - in the guise of a Roman Emperor of the eleventh century - to escape the cruelty of a world that surpasses and overwhelms. Having only defenses to a suit of Emperor, the throne and a few extras that lend themselves more or less the game, Henry IV is a nice illustration of the vulnerability of a man who once dropped his guard and who would have ever found. Throughout the play, he understands that defense is unnecessary, as the chick who sees the predator arise in its nest, it sees that its painful to him will lure more and that his insanity as a defense will no longer be of any use. I love this role.

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Another Columbine, the nurse. The unlikely reunion

I invite you to read my last post "In the West, the man who came from the East" on my other blog here . And possibly save your bloglist to be informed of the publication of my future columns nurses.
A desire to separate my professional stories a different universe. Life stories affecting the delicate world of mental illness.
Well, to you. A
you read.
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[From dream to the threshold of consciousness] (5 end)

Maxime will see him in all colors. Missed appointments, increased anxiety, rabbit stew that simmers in the absence, pending inconceivable.

One night, after the end of this story is still unfinished, she wakes up. The atmosphere is strange, it is in a bed that is not his, yet this room is his. A sort of mist filled the room. Something sweet emerges. It is absent at his side, yet she feels his presence-absence. She leaves swaying slightly worn by the surf. Abandoned
between waking and sleep, she slips on the slopes of the thoughts that do not speak, who do as they please.
Suddenly, she felt a warm liquid flowing between her thighs! She stands up, dismisses the sheets and horrified discovered a fetus lying in a puddle of blood. In swimming, she wakes up suddenly, rejects the sheets, look between her thighs. Sheets are pure white. It was a dream within a dream.

Mathilda gets up and creeps directly in the shower. An irrepressible need to wash. Hot water removes the dross of the past experiencing this dream.
Surprisingly, she feels at peace. She no longer has a stomach ache. Mathilda returns to normal. Just yesterday, there she was wandering in the limbo of thwarted love, she was suffering, and there, just the smile back Maxime move him. She pinches. No, everything is fine. She breathes.

But what's all this weird? It does not always explained how it was caught on the boundaries of the intolerable. And the sudden disappearance of so many emotions. This dream can be interpreted easily. She felt every day he was staying there at the pit of his stomach. It seems natural that it expels to dislodge. His subconscious has worked for her.
Mathilda is so far arrested. She turns in all directions a semblance of explanation. In their first night, their unconscious were mixed, the neurosis has found one answer in each other's neurosis? Admissible, but hey, why her, why him? She thinks of his strength from the beginning, she did not want him. Fond interpretations psycho-foo-things, Mathilda continues its investigation. His mother did not desire him when he was conceived, to seek abortions? All accumulate a lot of answers but this is very nebulous.

The morning is coming to an end, the phone rings. It's Maxim. He seems upset. Itself is very embarrassed, she wants to put an end immediately to this story that has no meaning for her. She is preparing to break definitively internally. That's all, not even the shadow of a comma. She was surprised to feel so confident.
He speaks, and in a monologue, she recounts the strange dream he just made. He arrives at the art gallery, goes into his office et découvre deux inconnus en train de copuler. Désagréablement surpris, il est pris de nausées, sa tête tourne. La pièce se remplit de signes noirs, des + et des - envahissent le bureau, de plus en plus nombreux. Il n'arrive plus à respirer, il sent qu'il va mourir. Dans son affolement il aperçoit un grand trou dans le sol. Il s'y jette comme absorbé. Il dégringole dans ce puits sans fond, ses mains ripent contre la paroi. Il veut se raccrocher. Il va mourir... Dans un dernier sursaut, ça y est il s'accroche... Et se réveille.
... Silence.
Dans l'esprit de Mathilda, tout va très vite. Elle a vite fait de trouver du lien entre leurs deux rêves surgis au même moment. She tells him his.

They both remain voiceless. Moved, he listens attentively. A rambling, they mention all the hypotheses, gathering all the facts particularly strange seen and felt by Mathilda during the three months just passed. It also accepts
break. Accepts that this story was built on the bases and unusual distortion with reality.
They can not hang up. They connect to MSN. In their respective webcam they cross their eyes misted. He smiled one last time. She cracks one last time. So smile, emotion is at its height, the tears roll ...

For the sake of appeasement, and make beautiful the end of the story, she tapped on his keyboard: " And if you had been my son in a previous life?" I do not really believe, but, What If? That would explain it .. . "
He did not give the eye while answering: "Yes , we'll put it like that, I'm fine. Sufficiently twisted It's to stop all these unanswered questions. And paradoxically, I find a rational answer. But one would have known where and when ?
In her reply: "At Pompeii there in 1900 eighty six years ... "In
shared a smile, they turn off the computer.

waves would they have the power to allow for unlikely reunion? ...

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Reflections on my practice

I am not necessarily an actor who puts forward the physical aspect of the game and my approach in this sense is rather intuitive. As soon as I am in good physical layouts to play, I let my body speak. My movements are then used to punctuate the mood in which the character is that I have to defend. They integrate seamlessly the text I have to say, but I still rely on the director to tell me at what point my actions and my movements are likely to blur the point. What I see is that the actor's body is neither more nor less than a ball of energy that this fabulous master skillfully. When it comes time to mount the stage, the adrenalin is sometimes such that they must be tamed in order not to impair readability.

Otherwise the essence of theatrical practice, as I see it, is to be sought in the conjugation two types of emotions. First, there is one born of intuitive physical momentum described above. This emotion and body movement must necessarily come into contact with the more cerebral emotion that comes to reading, to the appropriation and interpretation of the text. This leads to a match that is not always easy to cause especially when the text and the physical demands of the staging does not converge naturally, for example when the emotion is not initially detectable in the text or when the establishment is required too heavily.

I cites two examples where I found the interior a perfect combination of these emotions. In Cyrano de Bergerac, directed by Mr. Gignac, I always shuddered to the following statement made by Roxane in Cyrano few moments before he died: "No, no, dear love, I do not love you ! ? Since half past two already I struggled to blows with swords and jousting for verbal silence the unbridled love. Fatigue character was also mine and is finally let go of the song was released in an equally large for the character to the interpreter.

Autre exemple de ce type de conjugaison heureuse qui n’est pas venue initialement du texte celle-là : dans L’Asile de la Pureté, Donatien Marcassilar jeûne depuis plusieurs jours déjà lorsqu’il entreprend de prouver à l’un de ses amis jusqu’où doit aller sa liberté d’expression ; il entame alors un poème en exploréen – langue inventée par C. Gauvreau faîte de mots véritables entrecoupée de syllabes indépendantes. Pour fuser correctement, cet extrait fût donné dans un état physique de précarité: M. Faucher, le metteur en scène, m’avait placé les deux pieds dans une assiette vide, raide comme leaving only a picket waving my arms in all directions. The intensity of this physical binding combined with the resonance of syllables exploréen added to the fatigue of a soft stage actor for over half past one have certainly helped to make this time as one of taking of my career.

My first aspiration as a performer is to provide a meaningful picture of our humanity by making the world more accurately his incredible skills and qualities but also its most horrible defects. As theater history spans 2,500 years, the actor and the spectator ont l’occasion d’accéder, ici, à un répertoire inépuisable de représentations de l’humain allant des premiers balbutiement de la littérature qui cherchaient à définir les contours de celui-ci aux textes québécois contemporains qui contribuent à définir notre identité. Moi, je trouve dans cette multitude d’histoires d’amour, de traîtrises, d’honneur, de violence qui pullulent dans le répertoire dramatique et qui jalonnent l’histoire de l’humanité, un terreau inépuisable à la fois de cette grandiloquence et de cette misère qui font l’Homme. Tout, dans ma pratique, tend à offrir à mes contemporains une Just reading this table, as vast as it is.

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The unlikely reunion [inconsistency] (4)

Mathilda spends his time reforming the wall between the two. Wall collapses when it is found. Yes, it is reversed, it is destabilized because it transgresses its defense mechanisms. As a woman facing the man, she is full of contradictions. Contradictions that inhibit it, something she can not identify, that frightens him. She has a collection of armor it is against her. She can not let go. It sabotaged. She refrains from living fully. Her whole body talks yet. Impulses, desires, fantasies it touches the finger, which are almost there, it looks at the border, but do not go. It stays there. She tries to control everything to fear ... Fear .. (?) The feeling that a piece of it will be ripped off.

Maxime is unstable elusive. She does not understand why he is always there. He returns, he goes. It is like a teenager . He never says where he is when he comes when he returns. She tries to break, he refused without giving any argument, without changing its behavior. He returned unexpectedly, his smile under the window. She throws key.

Night at near her, it clings. Once she departs to try to sleep, he begins to shake, cringe. Profuse sweating, moaning that subside only when taken up in his arms. She feels in those moments to be his mother more than his lover. Yet between them, understanding sexual harmony, with an exquisite sensuality. While she is prepared to trouble, to discuss their relationship to the question, he raises a finger to his lips, kissed her gently on eyes, cheeks, neck and down it is finished it and its resistance. Their bodies know themselves acknowledge, are mixed. They do not know which is the hand of one or the other, they cross, overlap.

She has pain when he leaves. Everything happens there. She feels that it is hanging there. She can not rationalize, intellectualize this relationship, she does not understand. Its cycle is messed up, bleeding, pain, delays, she somatizes.
Every four days she wants to break. He looks almost sheepish, takes her hands and told him he does not understand what the her home. He says being aware of its shortcomings but it can not consider leaving. She confronts him about his feelings, he has no rational answer. He loves it and transcends it. Provided he can not bring himself to commit a minimum with it, he transgresses the frame, he flees and then returns.
They will find much to their amazement, they read in their thoughts. So that they can not agree, talk to them, to consider a stable relationship, they recognize to be permanently connected emotionally, and are surprised to think the same thing at the same time, même lorsqu'ils sont éloignés. C'en est presque épuisant.

Mille neuf cents vingts six ans plus tôt, juste avant de mourir, Lisa serre son fils tout contre elle pour apaiser ses tremblements. L'enfant gémit, fiévreux, effrayé, il claque des dents. Elle même est terrifiée. Dans un dernier râle, elle rassemble tout son amour pour protéger l'enfant. Elle le prend tout recroquevillé contre sa poitrine et son ventre. L'enveloppe dans ses bras, resserrant le châle autour d'eux. Et dans une prière d'amour, ils s'apaisent et se figent dans cette position en fermant définitivement les yeux.

Improbable reunion ...
to follow ...
(continued)

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Happy New Year, good health! # VasesCommunicants

The holiday season and its attendant good feelings. It seems that a few days off to rob a new year, we are all inclined to reassure our deep humanity. Everyone agrees to truce on our common everyday life. All - our families, our friends, our best enemies - happily engaged in a heavy hum of good quality.

Outside this vaste tumulte qui encombre nos journées, nous abandonnons un temps nos ombres d’adultes pour revêtir nos apparats factices d’enfants émerveillés.

Noël d’abord où le plaisir d’offrir n’a d’égal que celui de recevoir. Des cadeaux par dizaines, des papiers qui se froissent dans le reflet des yeux de nos chères têtes blondes. Et nous, pauvres responsables de nos vies en berne, nous redescendons un instant à la hauteur de nos bambins pour admirer notre enfance évanouie.

Puis, en attendant Sylvestre le dernier saint, s’écoule une semaine sans vie. Juste un peu de douceur pour les plus chanceux au coin a crackling fire, eating leftover turkey stuffing. Seven days of no economic, political or societal. Everyone cowers in his family. Gland is pampered or miserably before the TV replays. Only our hero always, De Funès, Fernandel and other Disney cartoons brighten up those early winter evenings.

happens

And The Year's Day. The first day. That anything is possible and all the incantations of wellness and better living together. Still in the brown fumes of champagne pitifully swallowed, we enquérons our health in the wishing all as good que possible. Voilà que la santé d’autrui prend une valeur inestimable. Ce jour là mais pas un autre. Le 1er mars ou le 15 juin, nous pouvons mourir tranquille mais le 1er janvier, notre santé doit être bonne et ce pour les 364 jours qui viennent. Insoutenable légèreté de l’être. Noël s’évanouit mais les boules multicolores encore clignotantes sur le sapin attisent notre crédulité et nous renvoient à nos régressions enfantines. Nous arrêtons de fumer. C’est trop cher puis franchement, cette toux dés le réveil, ce n’est plus possible. Nous promettons de moins manger et de perdre avant la mi-mars nos kilos superflus. Plus d’argent, une nouvelle vie, new work quieter, a wonderful love life. Love will be even more extraordinary than the previous year and finally be born in the hearts of those who do not.

And the marmot, it puts the chocolate in foil, ironically punctuated advertising in the 90s. Useless, mock benevolence hypocrisy of a day, a fortnight where everyone seems to live in the great land of Care Bears. Good luck, good health!

This entry was written by αяf I receive today as part of vases communicants . Vous pouvez suivre ce chemin pour aller lire mon billet publié chez lui.

Voici la liste des autres participants à ces Vases Communicants de janvier :

Futiles et graves (Anthony Poiraudeau) et Paumée (Brigitte Célérier), Tiers Livre (François Bon) et Ce métier de dormir (Marc Pautrel), Small Racine (Cécile Portier) and Abadon (Michele Dujardin) Attempts (Christine Jeanney) and Enfantissages (Juliet Zara) Time After (Dominique Boudou) and Biffures chronic (Anna Sander) Lands ... (Daniel Bourrion) and Journal Contretemps (Arnaud Maïsetti ) The blog Luc (Luc Lamy) et Frédérique Martin , Liminaire (Pierre Ménard) et Jours ouvrables (Jean Prod’hom), Pendant le weekend (Hélène Clémente) et Oreille culinaire (Isabelle Rozenbaum), Les beautés de Montréal (Pierre Chantelois) et L’Oeil ne se voit pas lui-même (Hervé Jeanney)