The conference Hall


The mosquito Extract of radiophonic interview with the writer Oskar Serti short before his death. “Ah, December 1919, how well I remember that a reception was held at the Sélys’ in honour of the publication of a small volume bringing together a few of my poems. It was on this occasion that I first met the pianist Catherine de Sélys. I was immediately struck by the extraordinary beauty of this woman. Whilst we were getting to know each other I was bitten on the wrist by a mosquito. This caused a great excitement within me. I have to admit, I have always felt protective towards and, indeed, admiration for every mosquito that has come to carry my blood. It was as if each of them became by this fact somehow part of me, as if I expected from them to adopt my attitudes, my character. Thus, as I had completely fallen under the charm of this Catherine de Sélys, I spied my mosquito surrounding her and a voice within me said “Go on , sting; her, sting her”. I was already picturing the nape of her neck as the ideal place for the sting. I hoped for nothing more to be happy than to see this beast fly over our heads, its stomach swollen with our mixed bloods, like the sudden fruit of our meeting, a fruit uniting us not in sin, but in the innocence of pain shared by victims. But the animal could not make up its mind to sting her. Then, all of a sudden, as if afraid of something, it prepared to land on one of the walls of the room. At that very moment I saw a fat man dive upon it and squash it impetuously against the wall with my small volume of poems (which must have been given to him) and which he had folded in two in order to strike better. It was Monsieur de Selys. As Catherine introduced him to me, I noticed the flattened body of my poor mosquito, squashed against the “T” of my name printed on the brochure. But I didn’t have the heart to look for that tiny red spot on the wall which must have splattered there a few seconds before.”	The stain Excerpt from a radio interview with Oskar Serti shortly before his death. In the spring of 1942, the building in which we stand was left derelict. A few friends and I took advantage to meet here every week to read our respective texts. These gatherings were a great comfort to me as, at the time, I had just left Madeleine Ivernol (whose name you will have no trouble recalling, as she enjoyed a certain amount of fame, in her time, as a still-life painter) and, frankly, the breakup had not been painless. One day, at one of those meetings, I was lost in thought and, gazing at the wall, happened to notice a damp patch beginning to spread near the ceiling. At first I was a little put out that changes brought about by the ravages of time could already be seen in a place so dear to me. I then began to study in greater detail this stain in which I began to see some particularly evocative images. These visions were so lifelike that I no longer knew if they were brought on by the stain or my overactive imagination. Be that as it may, I began to make out a pullover, which reminded me exactly of the one Madeleine had knitted for me at the beginning of our relationship. A week later, coming back here as was my wont, I noticed that the damp stain had spread. I could quite easily make out the shape of my pullover, and then, grafted onto the neck, I saw a horse, a long, grey horse, the very one that used to take me and Madeleine for rides along the banks of the Vistula. This way, week after week, memories surfaced, mingled and filled out at the same rhythm as the images contained in this ever-growing stain. One particular week, Madeleine's face appeared before me in the stain in such detail that I thought I was going mad. It was too much. I could no longer stand the sight of this stain that stood over me like a permanent reproach. Shortly after my friends had gone, I rushed towards it to wipe it away with the back of my sleeve. I then discovered, to my great amazement, that it was not a patch of mould, but a painting. Someone had painted that trompe-l'oeil stain mark to look like a mouldy patch; someone had been sneaking in here every week. One part of the painting was still fresh and I realised that I had wiped away Madeleine's face with my arm. Some of the colour had spread over the sleeve of my pullover, the very one that Madeleine had knitted for me.	The slip of paper Excerpt from a radio interview with Oskar Serti shortly before his death. In 1934, I went to this Poetry House to attend a lecture; I have completely forgotten what it was about. The only thing I remember is that, just before the talk started, I was leaning against the wall chatting with a few friends, and I saw the poet Marina Morovna come into the room. I had never spoken to her yet, but as a fervent admirer of her work, I had been sending her passionate letters for nearly two years, although she never wrote back. I still do not know what reckless urge drove me to go up to her. As I shook her hand, introducing myself, I saw her discreetly take a small piece of paper from my hand. She slipped it into her bag and said to me knowingly: "You are certainly delightfully persistent. Cheer up; I shall read this one". I was utterly nonplussed, as I had absolutely no idea where this note could have come from. It was only when I got back to my friends that I realised what had happened: before introducing myself to Marina Morovna, the idea of finally getting to speak to her had brought me out in a sweat from head to toe and I had wiped the damp palms of my hands against the wall so that no one would notice; that is how a slightly loose piece of wallpaper had got caught in my signet ring without my noticing, giving Marina the impression that I was offering it to her. By the time the lecture began, it was already far too late for me to write anything on the only one of my letters which Marina had deigned to read	The painting Excerpt from a radio interview with Oskar Serti shortly before his death. In 1924, I had just arrived in Paris and hardly knew anyone. But I was determined that my next career move would be to join its literary and cultural circles. I went to all the vernissages, cocktail parties, book signings and other functions. So I quite naturally got into the habit of coming to the Durand-Ruel Gallery for its literary evenings or small exhibitions of symbolist paintings. But—maybe I was too too shy or hung-up—I failed to make contact with anyone. Every time I came to the gallery, I always stood on the same spot, leaning my back against the wall. I never took any notice of the works on show, being too busy working out who was who, and most of all trying not to look too silly so desperately on my own. I clearly recall one vernissage. I had taken cover in my usual spot when I felt in my back the presence of a painting that must have been much larger than the ones usually on show, since it was encroaching on my territory. But despite this intrusion, I knew I couldn't change places. I was ensconced in my corner as if it somehow protected me against all these people who would not take me into consideration. I discreetly bent an arm behind me to locate the corner of the canvas I was leaning against. I found this canvas flaccid in the middle, then perfectly taut at the edge of the stretcher. I laid my hand out flat on the painted surface, which struck me as being amazingly cool in temperature. Then I felt that some heat was being maintained behind the painting. This sensation must have been caused by the lack of air circulating between the canvas and the wall behind it. Naturally, I made sure no one noticed my special interest in this painting, but I felt irresistibly drawn to the warmth it contained. Behind my back, my hand was stroking the canvas, travelling back and forth between the flaccid centre and the taut edges, as if seeking to penetrate this warm space. Suddenly, one of my fingers came to a halt at the edge of the stretcher, I scratched the crust of paint with my fingernail, then I forced the canvas. I instantly realised what I had done: I had just torn a painting that I hadn't even looked at. I absolutely had to do something to put things right. For the first time ever at a vernissage, it gave me the strength to move away from my wall. I headed for the artist—it was easy to tell who he was—and told him I had fallen in love with the painting behind me and just had to buy it. I left him my address for a home delivery. As agreed, a month later my painting was brought to me carefully packaged in a wooden crate; but I cannot tell you what it looks like yet because I still haven't plucked up the courage to unpack it.	The Timsi Venus Excerpt from a radio interview with Oskar Serti shortly before his death. In April 1929, I undertook such a tiring trip to central Africa that my fiancée Véronique de Coulanges, who had accompanied me so far, decided to go home without even telling me. I nonetheless carried on with my expedition, because I was absolutely set on finding a Timsi Venus, viewed as being one of the most typical sculptures of the lower Congo. As luck would have it, I came across an admirable specimen in polychrome wood, over five feet tall. Back in Paris, I held a little celebration at my place to show it to my friends and to the many specialists of African affairs whom I knew very well. I had hung my Venus on the wall, on the end of a long nail, as was customary in her native tribe. But five minutes before the first guests began to arrive, I saw my Venus move slightly. Intrigued by this, I went up to her, and discovered the cause of a dramatic happening: the nail holding her to the wall was at the end of its tether, so to speak. I could see no solution to this problem, because in two minutes there was no time for me to find an alternative mounting device. My Venus was still holding on, but I could tell that any vibrations that were a bit too strong might cause her to fall. So, to prevent my guests doing anything too brusque—or even making noises—that might spell disaster, it occurred to me to switch off the light (placing an elastoplast over the light switch so that no one would use it), and I lit a small candle at my Venus's feet. In this way, I created something of a sacred atmosphere conducive to meditation that would prevent the excesses often seen at cocktail parties. Everything passed off perfectly. My Venus stayed put, and moreover she was marvellously and delicately brought to life by the flickering flame. In an almost religious silence, I motioned to each of the guests that they could get together and talk in the next room, where a buffet was laid on for them. Actually, after a while I went to catch up with a friend there, then immediately after we met, I came back to the room with my Venus, to make sure that everything was going to plan. But the act of passing from a well-lit room to a practically dark one, lit by just one tiny flame, meant that for a few seconds I found myself in almost pitch darkness. And it was just at that moment that I felt something behind me moving. I immediately thought of my fragile Venus, and in a reflex panic gesture, I pinned her with all my strength against the wall. But I was beginning to get used to the light and soon discovered that what I had pushed up against the wall was not my Venus, but Véronique de Coulanges. Luckily, the Venus was still hanging miraculously on her nail. Before Véronique let out a cry of amazement at the violence of our meeting, I just had time to put my hand over her mouth. To see her again like this, in such a brutal manner; do you realise, I had literally pressed her up against the wall, we were glued together. I was overwhelmed at seeing her again; but I was afraid to take my hand away lest, through her cries, she endanger my Venus who had already been having such a hard time. In the headiness of the moment, and hoping to save two dangerous situations, I removed my hand and immediately kissed her so passionately as to prevent her from making the slightest sound. I could have stayed indefinitely in that state so that nothing would move again. This was the precise moment Véronique chose to remove the elastoplast and turn on the light at the switch just behind her back, from which she was hanging feverishly like my Venus from her nail. Yes, she decided to switch on the light for everyone to see, and come what may, the person with whom I had chosen to live.