How to Be Ugly

How to Be Ugly


I’m not using the verb “to be” in the sense of becoming, a transitive action from “being” to the adjective “ugly,” but rather, in the essence of being, of existing. How to be while ugly, how to exist despite being ugly — “ugly” being the independent variable at the core of being, a noun central to an identity.

One of the difficult parts about being ugly is that we’re not allowed to be ugly. Our surrounding exerts itself at convincing us otherwise. Loved ones try and persuade you of your beauty — which they indeed perhaps see with their subjective eyes. Gyms make a dream body attainable through hardship (and money). Surgeries make a dream body attainable through money (and hardship). Clothes are a way to hide your ugliness. Makeup distracts others from it. Eat well, have a healthy lifestyle, exercise, and you will finally be beautiful. Work out and eat well, you lazy piece of shit. Health is beauty, they say. Ugliness is just some sickness you have to ward off. Every one of its symptoms is marketed as treatable. You’re not allowed to be sick in public. But if you throw up looking in the mirror in the privacy of your double-locked washroom, that’s fine. Keep eating the unattainable dreams that society feeds you and choke on them.

Ugliness is congenital. It is inscribed in our DNA. Beauty is a lottery in which the winners convince the losers they got there through hard work. As if their everyday actions change their DNA sequence in a society whose beauty standards have been long established. Beauty is a privilege which needs to be recognized as such, much like heterosexuality, cisgenderism, whiteness, and class. And like those, it is not static, you may of course gain and lose beauty due to events, like going up and down social classes, but that doesn’t make it less of a privilege.

As a kid, I wasn’t told that I was cute or handsome. I was born ugly and grew up ugly. Yet I always blamed myself for being ugly. I must not have worked hard enough to be cute. Maybe I didn’t practice my smile enough, maybe I didn’t shower enough, maybe I needed to cut my hair, maybe I had to buy more expensive clothes, maybe I didn’t do enough sports. But it ran deeper than that. It had to be my fault; other kids were told they were beautiful. The most basic yet most excellent quality. They didn’t even really have to try. There was something wrong with me, in me. My body was wrong, my face was wrong. They still are.

But much like the rich who try and convince the poor that everyone gets what they deserve, the beautiful actively work at keeping the ugly ugly. They benefit from them. Their identity is based on their relative beauty, and the uglier the ugly are, the more beautiful they are. And, of course, in the current social climate, beauty translates to success and wealth. Beauty sells. Ugliness buys. The ugly need to buy those skin creams and workout programs that the beautiful use. The beautiful need the ugly to watch their TV shows and listen to their music and follow them on Instagram and pay attention to them and control them. “Be good little uglies, and maybe you’ll be less ugly. Watch us and bow down to us, and maybe we’ll grant you a bit of attention.” Have you ever seen an ugly influencer? They literally make a living from their beauty.

But, what if the ugly embraced their ugliness? Ugliness would become a tool of deconstruction. It could be an empowering statement. The ugly could unite and with time could dismantle the institution of beauty, and capitalism would crumble with it. The ugly would only date each other and take over, since beauty lacks content and depth.

I wish. If only.

Meanwhile, I am stuck in the in-between, and always have been. Do I accept, embrace my ugliness, and spend energy developing other tools to achieve success and happiness (qualities, intellect, skills)? Or do I work more actively at fighting, at concealing my fundamental ugliness?

Perhaps this in-between position is what I should embrace. Perhaps I could find solace and empowerment in having my inherent ugliness push me to develop compensatory qualities which have become central to my identity, while at the same time fighting this ugliness, diminishing the control that this sickness has on my life. And hey, I do like how those branded jeans make my butt look, and how that expensive conditioner makes my hair silky and soft. But I can never be healthy if I was born sick. I will never sell, and not buying at all is utopic, but maybe I can barter.

Here’s to bartering, fellow uglies. Stay strong and smart and kind. You deserve love too.

mes bleus multicolores


senti mon cœur


entre tes doigts

sur mon cou

en forme de deux W

laissant passer

un courant d’air

sur ma peau

censurant mon dernier soupir

de dignité



senti mon cœur


sur ton poing

s’écrasant sur ma poitrine

sur mon bras

sur mon autre bras

terroriste de mon corps

je me ferme les yeux

à chaque écrasement



senti mon cœur


quand tu l’as enterré

mon corps sa tombe

mes bleus son épitaphe

des hiéroglyphes manuscrits

à l’encre de mon sang

qui a peur de couler

prisonnier de ma peau


tes impulsions

colorient mon corps


notre histoire

à coups d’ecchymoses

je suis devenu

tableau vivant


le bleu tourne au vert

le vert c’est beau c’est le printemps

le printemps sur ma peau

la violence se renouvelle

une épitaphe multicolore éclot

fifty shades of blue

du mauve du vert du rouge du jaune

le drapeau gai étampé sur le front

le drapeau blanc dans la main


j’attrape un coup

de soleil

sur mon bleu

en maternelle les doigts dans la gouache

j’ai appris que le bleu et le rouge ça fait mauve

c’est faux

ça ne se mélange pas

un bleu sur fond rouge ça reste un bleu

Of Numbers, Death, and Nonsense

Of Numbers, Death, and Nonsense

        Despite (or because of?) my very clear interest in languages and the more liberal arts, my brain constantly thinks in terms of numbers. I’m obsessed with assessing my own productivity. Today is December 19, which means that 62% of the month has passed, and considering I have a deadline in mid-January, I have to increase the amount of time I work by 50 to 65% for the rest of the month in order to make it in time, considering other commitments and my recent fatigue which increases my average sleep by one hour per night, and the weather which increases the dog-walking time and preparation by 33% every day, and adding in some extra time for eventual unpredictable variables.

        And then I realize, today my dad would have turned 50. And in mid-January, I’m turning 28. The same gap between today and my deadline. Then all these numbers lose their purpose in face of my emotions. At the same time, these numbers have always ruled my life. It’s like a constant fight between the bigger picture and the precise details, the macro versus the micro, in which the micro wins out of sheer quantity, becoming the macro. And then, the unquantifiable, innumerable elements, the beyond numbers, get shoved under the rug until I start tripping on the bumps. Like today.

        Man, my dad would have turned 50. It’s a number beyond numbers. It doesn’t make sense, it creates sense. It’s a quantity which empties yet defines my life. It’s an addition of years of absence, it’s a subtraction of what should have been in favor of what was, it’s an unknown variable that became known too early in the equation and displaying ERROR on my calculator. It does not make sense.

        Or can sense ever be made? In French, we say to have sense, or to be sensical (which isn’t even an official word in English). So, is sense contained, had, rather than made? Do things, events possess sense? No. Neither language is correct.

        Sense is the unknown variable of the equation. We are the ones who try to create or see sense in that which is inherently void of sense. We impose sense onto variables through an emotional equation whose result is entirely subjective. We add up or subtract or multiply or divide numbers in our lives that we put together ourselves to try and give sense to them as a result. I suppose it’s easier to accept nonsense when we make it make sense, or make it have sense.

Happy 50th birthday to my big nonsense, my unknown variable.

Photography and the Reconstruction of Memory(ies)

Close friends of mine know that the last year has been one full of academic stress, as I had to not only find a new thesis supervisor and committee members, but also a new topic altogether, while falling behind on deadlines. And so, while I’m still quite a newbie in the field of photography, an aspect of my “new” topic, I’ve had to study it (from a theoretical standpoint; I’m a poor photographer and often prefer not to take pictures, but more on this later, perhaps) very intensively in the past two years. And what a deep, fascinating, complex medium it is! Recently, it was the 177th “birthday” of photography (I’m always reluctant to use the term birthday, because such mediums are eternal processes: it existed in other forms prior to its so-called invention, and has since then changed beyond the point of recognition). As I’m currently bathing (or drowning) in research for my upcoming comprehensive exams, I feel compelled to share a tidbit of personal experience.

In May, I moved into a new apartment, one into which I plan to stay for at least 3 years. Having been quite a nomadic person since being of age, I have rarely lived in the same apartment, let alone the same city/country, for over a few months at a time. And so, most of my less practical but meaningful mementos were kept at my mom’s. This necessarily includes photos. When I visited my mom last month, I went through a few different things that I wanted to bring with me, considering that I had settled in somewhere. I came across a few pictures that were quite emotional, and I would like to share one along with a few thoughts, without delving into theory.


If I had to date it, it would probably be some time in 1991, back when the photographic act was democratized and readily accessible, but still substantial and meaningful since a camera roll had a very limited amount of pictures, which could not be retaken. And so, for the working class, or at least in my family, photography was not a hobby or a passion, as it was indeed a significant expense, but a luxury. We had to invest and make the decision to remember something. Photography is indeed a future-oriented act of archiving. The frame of the photo becomes the prison cell of something that must be forever remembered, a moment frozen still.

However, this “freezing in time” is only true in graphic terms, since indeed meanings aren’t static. Viewing this picture, for instance, brought tears to my eyes not only because of the beauty of the picture, and not at all because it triggered a memory, but exactly because it created a memory. It created an intimate moment with my father that I had never lived. Evidently, I do not remember this moment at all. I would argue that photography, in many cases, isn’t so much the mnemonic device we like to see it, but rather, it participates in the creation of memories. Memories are created every time the picture is viewed, and rather than referring back to the moment it was taken, it emphasizes the very present act of viewing, interpreting, feeling. We are in fact viewing absence itself — what we see in front of us on the picture has vanished with time, and so the (physical) presence of a memento of what once was is merely a perpetual trigger of (chronological) presence when it is viewed. In other words, we don’t remember the moment depicted so much as we are in fact viewing the photo itself depicting a moment, and the act of viewing then triggers a certain (re)construction or even the creation of memories. In fact, the same picture may lead different people to reconstruct different, even opposite, memories.

This picture is of course a prime example. Let me focus on my thoughts as I analyze this picture, so as to underline the very process of the reconstruction of memories. I do not remember this picture being taken nor having ever seen it before. It was completely out of context. Though, I recognize my father, and I recognize myself thanks to other baby pictures of myself that I have seen. This photo thus inserts itself in my metaphotographic world, along with all other pictures I have seen and taken, so as to gain meaning. Its context, the context of its viewing, depends entirely on all my other experiences, particularly my other experiences with photography. I even need these other photos of me to recognize myself in this photo. And, as these experiences keep piling up at every minute of my existence, the experience of viewing may be different one minute from now.

After having recognized the two characters, my dad and me, I am of course struck right away by emotions. Photography captured my dad as he was alive. He has passed away. Let me reiterate that I had never seen this picture, and there are very few pictures of only the two of us. This idea of “capturing” life is one that I explored a little in Photography as a Spell Book so I will not repeat here what I wrote there. But as Roland Barthes, Hervé Guibert, and many others, have looked at in their texts, thinking photography is particularly complex when it is tied to death. This photo forces my brain to think of my dad as alive, almost as if it were a time capsule that keeps changing every time I view it. Like necromancy, he is constantly brought back to life in my mind every time I am the photo’s viewer.

Then, there is me, one year old, a testament of the passage of time. Barely recognizable were it not for having seen other pictures of me, for having been told that “that’s me.” I seem to be very happy; a sort of happiness that doesn’t seem staged, innocently spontaneous. My dad’s very well might be, but, again, these interpretations are reconstructions of the moment through my (limited and) subjective knowledge. The white and empty background, were it not for a chair, really focuses the entirety of the attention of the viewer onto the two of us — the two of them.

Then, I found myself comparing the two of us/them. My hand is tiny compared to his. I try to find myself in him. Do we look anything alike? My ears? My eyes? My posture? My cheeks? I’m not sure, I’m terrible at this, it’s hard to tell. Why this need, though? Am I trying to prove to myself that I am (that the baby depicted here is) indeed his son? Or am I trying to find myself in him? I’m not sure in which direction the comparison is going, as my eyes shift quickly from one to the other. I also come to ask myself: who is the photographer? My mom? If she does not remember, then who would?

I am also made to look at him in a way to reassure myself that yes, this is what he looked like. No, I have not forgotten him. But details have indeed escaped me, and this photo makes these details jump out. I had forgotten where and what his tattoos were. I had forgotten the way his lips smiled. His stomach. The warmth in his eyes. The shape of his eyebrows. His not-so-recently shaved chin. His tanned skin. A great amount of details, all very subjective, that were gone, that turned him into a blur in my mind. An idea more than a physical body. His physicality as a human being was disappearing. Or rather, has indeed disappeared, but this photo helps me reconstruct what I interpret that it was. He does not have the chance of growing older, so unfortunately I am left with a few pictures to fixate his body, to re-create memories of his tangibility without much regard to chronology. Every time I look at this picture, I create my father once again from the debris in my mind. Like making a snowman out of melting March snow. I make something approximate with my knowledge, my interpretations, my memories, and my feelings, which are all rooted in the present act of viewing and thinking, knowing that memories fade slowly with time. Viewing photographs is part of the artistic process of photography, and just like a poem that you re-read, it is different every time and entirely subjective. Photos are not just a crutch for memory, they make memories. It becomes even more complex when you or important people are the subjects/objects of the photo.

Thank you for reading this entry and for your respect toward the photo and my thoughts. Please do not share the picture out of its context, which is this page.

I Forgot

I Forgot

July 25, 2016. I am 26 years old. It’s 5:05 am. I just finished grading a stack of 64 midterm exams. A thunderstorm is roaring outside. My 7-month-old puppy is whining. My poor baby. 7 years ago, at 5:05 am, my dad had already choked to death. An accidental fire, I read in the newspapers. I was 19. He was 42. He would be 48 today (his birthday is in December, mine is in January). I was 5 weeks away from starting university. I was at my aunt’s, 33 du Barrage street. Too many numbers, my head hurts. Their cat was restless. No. It was only the following day that I learned about it. But I already knew. I’ve never told anyone, but I knew before knowing. People waited a full day and a half before telling me. 1 day and 1/2. His one son. But I knew, so I looked it up myself. I found this article in the newspapers: I learned about my dad’s death in the newspapers. Online, at night, at my aunt’s. It was that night that the kitty was restless. Yes, I remember now. I didn’t like that cat. I didn’t like the yellow pillow in the guest room either. I called my mom 6 or 7 times before she answered. The funerals were 1 or 2 days after. Why can’t I remember? I’m such a dumbass. I went shopping for funeral clothes at some point. I guess it was 2 days after. But it seemed quicker than that. I also got a haircut at some point but I think that was even before I knew. I mean, I already knew, but before I knew knew. Wait no. I spent the day right after with Karine. I pretended everything was ok. We even went out. We made a silly lip-sync video. So I was wrong, the funerals were 2 days after. I don’t remember how I got there. I don’t remember if it was my mom who picked me up or my aunt who drove me. They both attended. My brother was there too (half-brother, his dad is still alive, but of course he knew my dad well). My mom had separated from my dad a long time before. I have no memories of them together. But my memories are fading it seems, so what do I know. I was on autopilot for two weeks. My brain had trouble registering. I was numb. I didn’t cry much. I understood but didn’t feel. My mom cried, my aunt cried, everyone cried. Did I cry? I don’t remember. I was watching the movie of my dad’s funerals. I could only think of the fire. I was miles away, but I could see it so clearly in my mind. It was right there. I only had to go in and save my dad, but I didn’t. This scene was on endless replay for 2 weeks. That’s all I remember. All I remember is something that didn’t happen. Me not saving my dad, over and over again. Him dying endlessly. Me standing there watching his death. I remember plants. They were given to me afterwards. I still have them. I remember my mom’s tears on my shoulder. My aunt sniffling behind me. People looking at me. The fire. A lot of people looking at me. Some that I’ve never met, wishing me well. I don’t know you, wish well to your father who’s 82 and still alive, not to a stranger. I remember chairs. The fire. I remember not going to the washroom. I remember nothing of the following days. I also remember they didn’t let me be alone with my dad’s body. Those were the only words I said all week, “can I have 2 minutes alone with him?,” but they were denied. It’s the only thing I really wanted, but they refused. If only they let me, it would’ve been much easier. It would’ve been easier to cry. How could I react with so many people around me waiting for me to react. Dying to see my reaction. I remember some kind of priest saying stuff. My father didn’t believe in religion. Dumbasses, why have a priest at his funerals. I think the last time I saw my dad (not his corpse) was at his sister’s house. We drove there. It was kind of boring. I had a cheeseburger. He watched me sleep at some point. Or maybe that was the time before. I was half-aware, but I know he watched me sleep. I never watched him sleep. The closest I got to watching him sleep was in his coffin. He looked sleepy. He looked happy, happier than me. I wanted to join him. There was room for two. I’m not very big. I’m struggling to remember. We went on walks together and found crabs. He made me love crabs. He taught me how to grab them. But I don’t remember today. I forgot so many things. It hurts how much I’ve forgotten. The beautiful memories all gone. Only the feeling of loss that I will always remember. His death. Taking the whole space of my memories of him.All that’s left is his death.

Bildungsspiel: Pokémon and the Novel of Formation

Bildungsspiel: Pokémon and the Novel of Formation

            A young boy goes off traveling the world by himself, meets people that will change him forever, and comes back home wise, grown up, mature. If this sounds like the premise of Pokémon, it is also that of a whole literary genre, the Bildungsroman. And while the latter exudes respectability and artistic legitimacy, the Pokémon series is little more than a childish toy to most people’s eyes. I beg to differ, naturally. I will try raise a few parallels between the literary genre and the Pokémon video games, and see how the latter may even take it further.

            The Bildungsroman goes back to the end of eighteenth century, with Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister. A few works of German literature then drew inspiration from the eponymous character’s epic quest of self-awakening and psychological growth, and later, it spread to the rest of Europe. In fact, it may well be responsible for the still popular coming-of-age story in books, movies, and TV shows. The premise of the Bildungsroman is often a decision made by the protagonist to leave and embark on a journey without a specific goal or end date, sometimes caused by a major rupture at home. In the case of Wilhelm’s Lehrjahre, he cannot stand the bourgeoisie anymore and he goes off to do what he truly wants: to be an artist (specifically: he joins a travelling theater troupe). While this is very clichéd today, the Bildungsroman is at the origin of certain of these tropes. In the sequel, his Wanderjahre, the travelling, the different spaces, become the central part of his journey. This is in fact reminiscent of the subsequent travel literature. Travelling as trigger of personal growth is nothing new.

            It is in this context that I feel like Pokémon inscribes itself perfectly into the Bildungsroman genre. The player becomes the protagonist who embarks on a long journey of growth and awakening. All Pokémon games put an emphasis on travelling from one city to the next, as the map shows, where the hero encounters a variety of mentor figures (mainly professors) and helpers (Pokémon centres, allies), as well as challenges — namely, gyms which serve to track the progress, the growth of the hero as a trainer, the core of his identity. Identity which relies on his or her ability to breed, train and utilize fictional pets. The protagonist/player is expected to learn as the game goes along, the same way that his or her Pokémon learn and grow alongside him or her. The Pokémon’s growth is made obvious by the leveling up system (an actual numeric representation of growth), by abilities that are learned (much like learning skills, mastering trades), and emphasized by evolutions (and in some cases, mega evolutions), where the Pokémon actually grows in size, age, strength, and gains a more mature look — like growing older. They sort of hit puberty, much like the protagonist himself/herself does. Both Pokémon and trainer hone their skills. These Pokémon are thus much more than pets: they mirror the protagonist/player’s growth. A symbiosis happens, which is all the more emphasized by the addition of mega evolutions in Pokémon X and Y, where the trainer and the pokémon reach a paroxysmal point of intense synergy, which triggers a hidden ultimate form in the Pokémon.

            So while cities and gyms are milestones and give tangible rewards for the player and his or her team’s growth, the heart of the games themselves is the in-between cities. That is to say, the various unnamed “routes” that link precise areas. The spaces in-between is where the growth happens: Pokémon are caught and fight here, the vast majority of the times. Much like in the Bildungsroman, the cities provide a space of interaction with others, but the character’s growth happens in the travelling itself, the act of leaving these cities and going elsewhere, wherever elsewhere is doesn’t matter so much. In fact, it is in these in-between spaces that the player has the most freedom, while cities offer more or less a checklist of things the player must do in order to move on once again. The player may choose to fight and catch as many Pokémon as he or she wishes, go back and forth indefinitely, and thus, gauging how much growth his Pokémon — and himself/herself — experience. Cities are where the growth is put to the test, and also a pause between travels where the Pokémon may rest and heal. Bildungsroman also portrays cities as tests of the hero’s mettle. It is where he or she encounters the Other in all its frightening glory, must interact with other human being who inevitably (often implicitly) challenge his or her morals, ethics, decision-making abilities, and wits, among other traits of personality.

            The transposition of the highly human(e) characters of the Bildungsroman onto fictional creatures in Pokémon is an interesting one. It allows for a less overt, more relatable, more playful way of emphasizing growth and important decision-making as part of maturing. In fact, Pokémon could be seen as a fairy-tale-like allegory of the Bildungsroman in video game format. Much unlike a great number of video games, the end goal is not focused upon by the narrative or the gameplay per se. While there is a high number of elements that track improvements (number of Pokémon caught, their levels, number of badges, number of opponents defeated, items found, money acquired, etc.), the ending of the game is never really the end. You do not ‘beat the game’ and never touch it again after you become the Pokémon champion, like the last page of a book. The end is when the player decides to stop playing, in which case the game itself is not finished, but the player has decided to stop his or her growth, which could practically be endless.

            This is indeed taking the Bildungsroman even further, as books as a medium do not allow the same endlessness as video games do. It is however interesting that Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister spans over two books, and ends with “to be continued” despite never having been continued. I interpret this as a certain future-oriented gesture at human growth which never truly ends. Wilhelm could keep growing until his death, and so the possibility of a sequel was always open (keep in mind this is way before the epoch of the Harry Potter and Twilight era, as well as the Marvel and DC era, where sequels and prequels and side stories keep coming up). It was, at the time, shocking that a novel would end like this.

            What makes the video-gaming appropriation of the Bildungsroman fascinating is the player involvement. I have discussed this at length in other entries so I shall not restate my points, but the mirroring of the player and the protagonist (who is himself or herself a mirror of his or her Pokémon) may create a certain infiltration of the game’s ethos into the player (who of course infiltrates the game clearly through the decisions he or she constantly makes). I would argue that the growth experienced by the protagonist through his travels and his Pokémon is simultaneously experienced by the player. Therein lies much of the nostalgic power of Pokémon: the generation of players that grew up with Pokémon feels very tied to the games which instilled the sense of growth present in the games into the players. The creatures, the protagonists, and the players all grew alongside each other, with each other, and caused each other to grow (the influence goes back and forth between all three poles).

            This becomes even more fascinating in the case of Pokémon GO, not only because it capitalizes on the nostalgia for the Bildungsromanesque growth its players experienced with the Pokémon games, but also because of its medium. In fact, being mobile (and thus following the player absolutely everywhere), this player/protagonist identification is taken to its extreme. The very space of the game becomes the player’s space, using an actual GPS-powered map tracking the player/protagonist’s movements, becoming his or her movements. Virtuality becomes a layer of the player’s physical space, merging with it, like the player and protagonist merge. The player becomes the hero of his or her own Bildungsroman, or Bildungsspiel (game of formation), as I amuse myself to call it.

Language Comparisons I

I would like to take a closer look at some expressions and words that I feel like are strikingly different in English and in French.

Life expectancy vs espérance de vie

So when we speak of a given population’s average life span, English uses the noun expectancy, and French uses the noun espérance, hope. That is to say, Anglophones expect to live to a certain age, while Francophones hope to live to a certain age. Expectations imply confidence, a given right. We demand to at least live that long. Hopes imply luck, a privilege. We would be ever so lucky to live that long. I’m wondering how high of an effect this linguistic difference has on actual perceptions of death. Are French speakers more likely to have a certain carpe diem approach to life, while English speakers would have a more pragmatic, future-oriented way of living, taking for granted their life expectancy? There is a huge difference between hoping for something to happen and expecting something to happen. I don’t wanna make unprovable assumptions, but this difference is fascinating and it must have at least a minor, unconscious effect on our way of thinking.

Domestic violence vs violence conjugale

I am interested in the idea of domesticity here. I find this concept quite odd to use in the context of relationship. This term is used so often in so many contexts. We domesticate pets. They belong to us, we tame them. We also use it in political contexts, where domestic means national, as opposed to international or beyond regional borders. It is the geopolitical entity under the rule of one major head of state (say, a queen, a president, a prime minister). Domestic violence is a civil war. It is among two people who are in a conflict, wanting to own and control the territory. They want to tame the other, to assert rule over the home. Conjugal on the other hand is more difficult to grasp. It is only an adjective implying 2 or more people, together (con-), and jugum meaning yoke. So, two people working together, pulling their weight equally. The concept of equality and justice is prevalent here, and makes the breaking of it through violence all the harsher. As well, we conjugate verbs, they become inflected by the Other, the person they are assigned to.What does this difference between English and French? I don’t know, but it’s huge, and problematic in both cases. But it also adds some richness to the conceptualization of these expressions, and there is poetic and healing value in exploring latent baggage of certain realities that we might be victims of.

Graphic vs graphique

Both the English and French forms of the adjective are used to refer to visuals, to images of sorts, but only the English use it to also mean something that is very vivid, with realistic details, often said of accidents or gory events. The fact that these two meanings are contained in one word is interesting. In English, a written description can be graphic. This means that English makes a certain equation of visuality with reality. Something with graphic qualities is something which is vivid and does not spare details. If it is shown visually, it is graphic in both senses. There might be a hidden connotation here: words hide while images reveal. Graphique, on the other hand, is purely a technical term that refers to visuals.