This work is the recording of the trajectories of a spinning top on a sheet of paper. The spinning top, whose top gets dirty on a charcoal, is left to fall several times, giving it a rotatory motion: wherever it lands, it will mark a point, fixing in the path any minimal orbit, any bend.
Its is a short path, a shy one, the blueprint of a silent and insisted manoeuvre on the surface. Repeated until it gets monotonous.
 
What interested me most about the spinning top was its speed, the rotatory delirium, the quantity of revolutions, its intoxication. And yet, there was nearly no trace left of this hypnotic activity in the final work. Just a tiny burr remained. Probably bound to get lost in a very short time span, bound to be erased.
 
I think of these drawings as a thought that empties with an unbearable delicacy. As the result of a deep boredom.