“It’s strange, I must have been away too long, the faraway, my home, is in my dark dreams. It’s strange, with strangled words, while drowning. I screamed alone in the water, in a fever (...) Such will be the title of Julien Creuzet’s show; or not” is the beginning of a poem, a first-person litany, of a voice that soon doubles up and multiplies. It’s also the title of Julien Creuzet’s solo show at the Palais de Tokyo, or not.
This exhibition will come alive in the form of secular pop songs. A deep-sea landscape in a plastic pool. An unaccentuated rhyme illuminated by a bluish light, turning around on itself. A parrot glitching with a guitar on its foot. A melodic meandering along jagged shores. An array of ragmen’s stalls at the Croix-de-Chavaux market. A breath and a riff. A choreographic score derived from a Dogon ceremony. Sirius B rotating to the beats of Afro-house. Caroline zié-loli, Papa Djab, Napoleon Bonaparte and Joséphine’s severed head. A cockpit arena on Place de la République. Without forgetting a hairless dog with ironcoloured pixelated flesh, both a wily spirit and a conveyer between worlds. Or not.