Sensitivity for artistic expression emerged for the youngest among them around the age of twelve, fascinated in class by Géricault's Raft of the Medusa presented to them by a drifting art teacher.



According to concordant sources (and far from trivial), a majority had to undergo during childhood repeated electric shocks in contact with multicolored acrylic undershirts and hoods of the Marcos sub-commander type soaked in saliva.



The eighties "It's the crisis! "



During their youth, the media turned their spears over to the excess of this litany, taken up in prime time by the actor Yves Montand reincarnated in liberal pythia, dizzy from making the weather vane. One famous french businessman Bernard Tapie bawled "Succeeding his life", the older boomers hammered that it was necessary to work, to work (implied for their (large) account). This insurmountable horizon of arid injunctions to so much abnegative work awakened in them a Prattian and imperious "desire to be useless".



Having naively not planned to enter the working life and even less to make a career anyway, these carefree souls saw no other alternative than working to live from the most essential activities: painting, drawing, writing. A long-term endeavour in which they persevere every single day.