Méditer pour déployer son espace intérieur et sa capacité d'accueil, pour rencontrer l'Autre comme un sujet à exister dans sa singularité et lui offrir l'hospitalité en toute sécurité n en tout confiance, dans l'intimité et la complicité, en quête d'une qualité relationnelle élevée, à bras ouverts, à coeur ouvert sans rien attendre en retour.

91 - Le Bon Accueil, Que Signifie Accueillir - 20 Min.MP3

Paroles : Nicolas Céléguègne
Musique et arrangement : Michel Marques
Sacem, 2024

BREHAT

Chagall, réalisation Mélanie Péclat pour Autant en Emporte l'Histoire, France Inter

FRANCE INTER : Chagall-Autant en emporte l'Histoire

Miss Lorette in her linen blouse
Wanders 'round the classroom like a trapped grey mouse
With a stack of printouts, the holy writ
Of Chagall in blue, and that flying goat bit
She paints with her sighs, critiques with a snarl
Says, “Why can’t you kids just draw like Chagall?”
Your tree looks wrong, your sky’s too dull
Your dog doesn’t float, your face isn’t full

She’s got a shrine of cutouts and clippings
In the storage closet behind the trimmings
If your work’s not dreamy, not vaguely surreal
She’ll frown and mutter, “Do you even feel?”

Everything was Chagall, nothing more, nothing less
From the brush to the theme to the painter’s address
She’d say, “Emotion, kids! Just smear some blue!”
But your tears weren’t enough — she wanted sky-cows too
Every hour, every day, every project, every wall
Had to scream the same name — it was Chagall, Chagall!
Miss Lorette and her canvas cage
Trapped in her eternal floating village stage

We painted goats with violin hands
And brides in the sky over pastel lands
She never smiled at landscapes or cubes
But once she kissed a kid’s drawing — it was a Chagall ruse
She said, “Yes! You finally get it, my dove!”
But the kid had just traced it from the book she shoved

She'd say, “Marc was a prophet, a sage in paint!”
If you liked Van Gogh, she'd scream, “Have some restraint!”
Your inner world? Not her concern
She just wanted more Chagall to burn

Everything was Chagall, like a looping spell
In the kingdom of crushed dreams, she reigned too well
“Abstract is trash, and Cubism’s dead!”
She whispered that while stabbing a Picasso head
Every line, every shade, every desperate call
Echoed back with her moan: “Not Chagall at all…”
Oh, Miss Lorette and her pigment chains
Tied to a ghost in a world of stains

But then one day — oh God, that brave young soul...
Little Jamie stood up from his plastic throne
And said, “We’ve had enough of your Chagall regime!”
The room went cold — like a haunted dream
Her smile cracked, the wind began to cry
She turned around with fire in her eye

“You ungrateful brat,” she softly hissed
“You dare defy Marc’s sacred mist?”
The windows shattered, the lights went black
Jamie wept in chalk dust, praying to take it back

Everything was Chagall — and it always would be
You could beg, you could plead, but you’d never be free
From the swirling cows and the pale green brides
In Miss Lorette’s mind, that's where the truth hides
Every tear-stained drawing, every thunderstruck call
Was sucked into her vortex: Chagall, Chagall!
We learned about art, but not from the start —
We just memorized one tragic, floating heart

The Marc Chagall Song

Auteur compositeur interprète, auteur d'ouvrages pédagogiques, de chansons et de polars jeunesse.
Nouveau CD "Le Kaïros" en 2024

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