Pauline Picot (Lyon, France): Ayrton/Pauline

  • watch: 29th June 2020 at 8 am UTC
  • duration: 5 min

A year ago I didn’t know Ayrton Senna. A year ago I had never heard this name. A year ago the two words Ayrton and Senna didn’t mean anything to me. Didn’t bear any intensity, any truth, any secret. I was hearing shallow syllables, full of nothing, empty sounds to my ear. I’ve never seen him drive. I’ve never seen him die. I’ve never seen him live. I’ve only seen pictures. I’ve only read texts. I’ve never touched his outfit. I’ve never touched his hand. I’ve never been to a Grand Prix. I don’t know how to drive. I don’t have a driver’s license. I’ve never been in a Formula 1. I’v never even been in a gokart. I’ve never driven anything, even two-wheeled. I wasn’t there at Interlagos screaming crying dying of happiness in the crowd and feeling I was the crowd and feeling the crowd in me. In 1991 I was one year old. I wasn’t there at Imola stunned and numbed and my mouth like a black hole opened on my inner ashes. In 1994 I was 4. My parents don’t like Formula 1. I don’t like Formula 1. Formula 1 is mostly being done by men. Formula 1 is mostly done by rich men going round in circles burning fuel whereas our planed is melting. Formula 1 is mostly done by chic sandwich board men covered in brands and strapped tight in their machines and lauched into madness. I’ve never been to Brazil. I don’t know this country. I don’t speak portuguese. I’m not a man. I’m not rich. I wasn’t there in Estoril in 1985, drinking rain and toasting to his first victory; my parents hadn’t even had their first child. I’ve never touched Ayrton Senna’s hand, back or hair. I wasn’t there in Suzuka in 1988, my parents hadn’t even thought about having me. I’ve never worked with Ayrton Senna, I’ve never been around him or got his autograph. I’ve never talked with Ayrton Senna, laughed with him, heard him scream. I’ve never spent a week-end in his villa. I’ve never raced with him, never kissed him. Never made love to him. I’ve never looked him in the eye. I’ve never been blessed by him. I’ve never walked by him, never photographed him, never healed him, never saved him. I’ve never been in the same room as him. I’ve never shaken hands with him, never smelled him. I don’t know Ayrton Senna.

BIO: Pauline Picot is a poet, playwright and a PhD candidate in Theater Studies. Quartett Editions have published her plays in 2012 (“Les Possibles de son corps”), 2014 (“Ian”) et 2015 (“Des camisoles (et autres textes)”) et Les Éclairs Editions have published her short poetic fiction, “A l’heure qu’il sera” (2017). She also writes raw and angry fragments that she publishes straight away on the Internet for immediate feedback. She’s hurt, angry, boiling up an sour. She started a series of performances in 2020. ARTIST’S WEBSITE