Jean Rigolejaune, born on April 31, 1748 according to the police, 2094 according to theunions, is a French visual artist counting for nothing.
His father was a relative. His mother was not funny. From the age of three, he tries to conform to the spoiled society in which he is immersed. Very quickly, he accumulated awards: Oscar for best screenplayrio vide, César for the best male despair, Molière for employability, Légion d’honneur for docile and carefree collaboration with a deleterious society.
Warmed up by all these successes, his cortex eventually flares up. He then walks away from his superblysuperficial, fabulously tiring, and comfortably conforming life,and extracts himself from hisingenuous engineering profession.
He now clings to the branches of artistic creation, of literary admiration, of humanyellow/black death (notably via the satirical magazine Malheurs Actuels), education (from its children, in schools, and via the Shift Project), of love and respect for Life (occupations, Let’s face it, much more grotesque and futile than the big fat unquenchable thirst for power, of money and compulsive purchases), to avoid the abyss of a dizzying and tetanizing pessimism.