Nomade, Bernard Gaude

This is not a film about «art » or « about an artist ». It is a game of hide and seek where the hidden player is perfectly organized in designating a white zone; his wound. Written pages, pots, and paints are the magnificent waste products of this enigma. The music – the inexistant spectacle. The bandages of Gaube are not different from the eternal rut that in others we call autodestruction, aggression, suicide, or depression. You, me, each of us has his own particular wound.