Performance reading of "Fin sans suite" by Jean-Luc Bourdon.
Enjoy a unique programme of performances, dance, song and storytelling during the Biennale d'Autun - Festival international d'art sacré contemporain.
The 24-day Biennial pass gives you access to all the shows.
The 1-day pass gives you access to the show of the day.
Jean-Luc Bourdon was born on the stage. The Conservatoire d'Art Dramatique was his first refuge, a sanctuary where the voice rises and the gesture draws silent truths. There, between the walls of the Théâtre National or the...
Enjoy a unique programme of performances, dance, song and storytelling during the Biennale d'Autun - Festival international d'art sacré contemporain.
The 24-day Biennial pass gives you access to all the shows.
The 1-day pass gives you access to the show of the day.
Jean-Luc Bourdon was born on the stage. The Conservatoire d'Art Dramatique was his first refuge, a sanctuary where the voice rises and the gesture draws silent truths. There, between the walls of the Théâtre National or the stages of the university theatre, among others, as well as during experiments with ephemeral groups or in amateur theatre, in itself a high place of expression, he took it in turns to don the clothes of actor, director, animator, to see it all in vain. The stage is his mirror, his breath, a space, but authenticity collides with masks, and ambition is incapable of creating a true work - the words thrown back at him sound false, like distorted echoes of a song he carries within himself, realising that the poet is not the one who makes "poetry" but the one who returns to the truth at the cost of bringing the world into disrepute. Between the visible - the inner rhythms that dance in the shadows - and the invisible - the veil he lifts - he weaves in secret, knowing that revealing too much can kill things, and that escape is the most intelligent solution for any form of life. In praise of physical or immobile flight.
Ending without end. Reading.
Between dream and ritual. On the edge of sleep, mortal as we would say today, a man abandons himself to a ritual that he doesn't know whether it is absorbing him or guiding him. Between wakefulness and dream, between chanted words and suspended silences, his voice is lost in a weave of verses, songs and echoes. This text is a journey: it takes on the forms of poem, litany and dialogue, like so many thresholds crossed towards an uncertain elsewhere. On the edge of a dream, a man surrenders. This man is Arthur Rimbaud. He follows a rite. His voice melts into a stream of songs and arias. This song is a step: it takes the form of a poem, a cry, or a game, like so many thresholds that must be seen and overcome. The leap is the word, and the author who writes about this man says to himself "I should only write things that are sung".
