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Ever since the dawn of our lineage, our dreams irrepressibly carry us. At any moment our conscience seeks to abstract itself from the raw materiality of the world to draw shapes in the clouds, to see in the night sky the signs of its fate as if to ward off its contingency. Once its sophistication is lightened, could art take the epiphanic form of a calligraphy of our instincts, of which the genetic foundation remains almost unchanged since what we call prehistory? Here is the intuition on which Doudoudidon builds his artistic expression, which this book opens the door to, that of a world where ancestral hunter-gatherers rub shoulders with fantastical creatures and post-humanist robots. On a cosmic scale, our history has no more thickness or importance than graffiti: it is basically what is expressed here, without manners, with humour, tenderness and lightness.

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