I put couscous in a mold and invited my letters to settle. The gains roll, the hand runs, picking up a handful of semolina on the way. She projects it, passes and irons it while respecting the traces of the assembled and jointed forms. The colors circulate, the words are articulated, the eye is nourished and the ear welcomes the conversation. The hand spreads, the colors settle and the thought gathers. Little by little the letters come together and are exposed.

A letter seated, another lying down, a third which changes posture and turns around, then another which rises and moves away. Letters like beings, placed next to each other. Comings and goings, murmurs, whispers then bursts. Words here, words there that uncouple and evolve by occupying space. Fragments of colors that seep into the letters in the form of small figurines squeezed like beings against each other. The whole world is incorporated into the letter, “the letter becomes an image in the carpet of the world”

Is it a carpet or a mosaic? On the floor or on the wall? It is just a place, simple and warm, welcoming and generous, arranged with small bundles of memories. A place where language and sharing intersect and establish themselves.

A childhood memory, the recreation of an atmosphere. A ritual, precious and traditional. A family reunion around a national dish: couscous.

By reconstituting this ritual, wouldn’t I have proceeded to recreate this dish?

Steamed semolina, grouped into finely colored dumplings (spicy) to whet the appetite. Accompanied by letters (vegetables) slightly raised by a broth. A recipe that arises from the nostalgia of the land of sands. It is born in a gesture, evolves in a movement, is renewed in repetition and then reformed in a tribute to the memory of the unforgettable.

The gesture resurrects Moroccan tradition and culture, enters me deeply, takes me, speaks to me, carries me away, transports me, transforms my letters and my colors and transposes gestures and flavors.

A gesture as an artisan of memory.

Is it Exile that brings memory back to life? or is it the memory that reforms thought by creating a fruitful dialogue?

In my second plastic realization, memory is discovered in a discourse of matter, “…because what a work conceals is the matter of which it is made, the conceptual accomplishment of its memory rooted in the sensitive”