The aïnigrams: those are the sum of years (damned years - see previous books about the artist) of work on canvas and other supports, and for this festival, textile wandering artworks, poetically erotics.
Aïni's approach continues, in a sort of impossible writings punctuating his fishing lines, that can't be decrypted without keys, of which the most important is Humanity.
Mattress pages or music scores, cloth and nets, web embroided canvas, or cartridges: here and now, no dark circles under eyes, nor life-deaths or palpable goods, no certainty, nor long-range sight or short-term, except translucent; a stiffing ode of wrinkles and soft-touch peelable barks, a tought-fulness, a murmuring fruit now, like the laughing source under his garrigue light, the possible water line under the rocks, the possible drop, the writing-nature hyphen; a "gather today the roses of life... Don't wait till tomorrow...", the eternal battle with Hell-ock: Freedom, a delectable war violence...
Yet then, that pair widens and opens, in reading and braces; broadened.
With regard to the artist's technic, here is the binding: the Pictaïni; the mattress stiffing is its flesh, wet it's alive, dry it mummyfies.
It's an unique composite product, findable today on Earth, in Oissel-sur-Seine city, but, tomorrow?