Ben Vautier • WI Intimité

Biographers represent the ego, and the ego is what I would like to change.

I would so much have liked to be the only artist without a biography.

Ben, born on July 18, 1935, neither more nor less brilliant than anyone else.

I have an indigestion of biographies, dates, signatures, and above all, of myself.

A biography is a shameful thing…

Ben Seen by Ben

Originality 7/20, Honesty 17/20, Virility 18/20, Humor 10/20, Physical Beauty 13/20, Intelligence 14/20, Ambition 15/20, Willpower 7/20, Common Sense 7/20.

Ben was born on July 18, 1935, in Naples, to an Irish mother and a French-Swiss father. He lived in Turkey, Egypt, and Greece. He arrived in Nice in 1949, left school at sixteen, worked in a bookstore for four years, and then became an antique and second-hand dealer. He currently lives in Nice with his wife Annie and his children, François Malabar and Eva Cunégonde, and, like everyone else, will die one day.

I wanted to give up art, but I turned it into art.

I wanted to love everything, but I loved only myself.

I wanted to be important, and there is no such thing as importance.

I wanted to create something new, and I do as others do.

I wanted to tell the truth, and I turned it into a lie.

I dreamed that someone was knocking at the door, that I was going to open it, and that Ben walked in.

I dreamed there was someone in the wardrobe.

I dreamed that in the room next door, someone could not fall asleep.

I dreamed that I was flying through the air.

I dreamed that art was a story of holes.

I dreamed that I was hungry and had nothing left to eat.

I dreamed that my body was turning into that of a boa constrictor.

I dreamed that Alice was performing a striptease.

I dreamed that Eric Fabre wanted to buy my tie.

I dreamed that Mitterrand called me to help solve the problem of Lebanon.

I dreamed that the sun no longer rose.

I dreamed that I was playing strip poker with Reagan; I had four aces, but he had a royal flush.

I dreamed that there was a naked man under the bed.

I dreamed that I had no more time to waste.

I dreamed that Louis XV, Dracula, and Marguerite Duras were in my room and that they all wanted to get into my bed.

I dreamed that I was an angel and could fly off the balcony.

I dreamed that there was a secret formula under my pillow.

I dreamed that I was making love with a Chinese man.

I dreamed that the hotel was located in Twin Peaks.

I dreamed that Buddha said to me: “Stay in bed and let the dust come to you.”

I dreamed that this dream never ended and that the Hotel WindsoR existed only within my dream.

I dreamed that the mirror opposite me was a two-way mirror and that behind it, seated on three thrones, were Dalí, Ben, and Duchamp, watching me sleep.

I dreamed that I rang the bell and that the man or woman of my life came in with a big smile and said to me: “Don’t worry about anything anymore—I’m here.”

Text for the Hotel WindsoR, 1996.