It was getting later and later and, after staring at my walls, paintings, vases, chairs, nails and hands here I was, waiting for an answer to my questions about life and death.
One April night I timidly got closer and closer to a mirror where I saw myself, just like I was, streaked with grey, with a long self-kidnapped middle-age man beard and a romantic and depressed look in my eyes because of the whole situation.
I didn’t particularly feel like going out because I was afraid of finding myself in an abandoned post-apocalyptic world which I imagined to be like after a global nuclear explosion. Nevertheless, I still wanted to communicate with everybody and tell them all that I loved them. I wanted to cheer up everyone, make them laugh and think, sharing and exorcising somehow the deep pain we were all experiencing without having to verbalize it directly.
Looking at myself a little bit better in the mirror I started pouring out my pain moaning, crying and screaming while making many funny faces and taking many different poses. All at once I was looking sad, furious, crazy, happy, silly and intriguing.
All those faces were framed by the baroque edge of my sitting room mirror which immediately made me think about those kitsch children's pictures often displayed in the shop windows of all those family ceremonies specialized photographers.