Paintings of Aïni makes use of a relatively unexpected material in the artistic milieu: matress stuffing. Using this substance mixed with glue as paste, he turns it into an amazingly malleable material. Spread across the canvas for the cause, it becomes the very flesh of his tourmented characters. And under so many trials does it sweats under the artist's hands, pressed into his doubts and fears?
Phonetically, the word carries multiple meanings, in french "la bourre" (stuffing) that ears insidiously brings close to another noun: "labour" (ploughing), that stripping of the glebe for ritual sowing, inevitably sends back to the bed, place of deep sleep, of horizontal thought and of most voluptuous caresses, tiny territory where the prodigal semen of man spurts at the climax of extasy, bearer of wonder or disaster, according to the secret state of his heart. Yet, Aïni, precisely, does not stop to talk about love, of fusion and death. The woman, of which he feels the obvious creative superiority -because only her gives life, when man, most of the time, only degrades her with his distressing need of domination- the woman is as well at the begining and at the confines of all desire. Her womb is the nebulous mould, the shadow crucible where future formulates, the safeguard of Adam's sons, the negligent that left the life tree for the knwoledge tree, delight for excitement. Woman is, more than man, essential to renew the kind, but she is, in return, scarred, victimized, sacrified to the huge myth of worldwide activism, burned to death on the altars of small ephemeral empires that leave her, nearly always, out of the brutal dreams and vain ambitions of man. Few princes have the inspiration to pass on a Taj-Mahal. Few princes have love for guideline.