Somewhere on the French Riviera. January 1996.
Philippe Perrin was born in 1964 in La Tronche.
One wonders whether he could have been born anywhere else.
Part boxer, bad writer, hoodlum, adventurer, alcoholic, and megalomaniac, he can be spotted leaning against the bar at a Biennale in Venice, in the grand arenas of sporting encounters, or outside a Hong Kong nightclub in the pale light of dawn.
He also happens to exhibit traces of his “passages” through places known as “the art world.”
Only yesterday, stretched out on a deckchair overlooking the sea, he confided to me:
“We are living through a time when many lament the disappearance of heroes and stars.
Boxers are the last warriors.
Gangsters are heroes.
Liars are poets.
Artists are drifters.
Murderers are adventurers.
I am all of these at once.
Pure class, really…”
Then he slipped into the shadow of the lounge, muttering:
“Today, once again, the weather will be unbearably beautiful…”
He took a beer from the refrigerator without asking whether I wanted one, then collapsed onto the red velvet sofa.
He slipped a cassette into the player.
As soon as the music began, I immediately recognized his voice.
It was an old Italian song that he himself was singing.
Scugnizzo…
He lit a cigarette and looked me straight in the eyes.
“An exhibition is a woman you have to seduce.
A woman you have to seduce is a bank you have to rob…”
Music.
Now it is time to leave…
Robert Miradique
Works by Philippe Perrin can be seen at Galerie Eva Vautier, Nice.
The book Starkiller is available from Éditions de la Différence, Paris.
