Présentation

One morning we wake up and realise that time has passed much faster than we thought.
We’ve been writing shows, performing them and discovering cities in France, Europe and sometimes a little further afield for almost ten years now.
Ten years. Barely.
But I feel like I started the day before yesterday.
Ten years seems like such a short time to write and build something.
It’s still childhood.

Time has flown by.
What will the next few years be like, the years of our adolescence?
This morning, I asked myself how to talk about our company, Lieux-Dits, as I watched time fly by. And the world around me.

But I’m pretending, a little.
I’m exaggerating.
Because we’re not really children anymore.
We ask ourselves questions.
Nothing more.
About what we’re doing.

As time goes by, we open up, we try to work, we weave relationships, we weave stories, we weave time.
Something like that.
We try to make sure there’s one more day. (Because we’re not quite sure it’s that simple. One more day.)
So we write shows, we try to talk about politics, history, science, society, commitment, ecology, love, childhood, hope, light and night.
We want to write and perform shows.
And be a home.

What could it mean to be a “lieu-dit”?
It’s absurd.
You can’t be a “lieu-dit”.

Until proven otherwise.

Building a moving house, a house without walls but with foundations, a house where we could live and put on shows, write and publish books, leave a mark and get together to talk about what we want to protect, try to resist disaster and talk with thinkers and journalists, meet philosophers and students to learn with them, debate with activists and teachers to understand, meet spectators with whom to share time.
To look at the world and say what we want to experience together.
That could be it.
Being a “lieu-dit”.

So we try to do that.

Places to live together.
Without walls.
Because we think that, ultimately, that may be what we need to do to defend ourselves in a world that is burning.
Break down the walls.

Until proven otherwise.