Those who have listened to him for a long time did not wait for his first book to know that Thomas Fersen is a poet.
The alchemy of his hoarse voice, his subtle music, his language both common and precious transforms ordinary things into enchanted objects.
Tie, umbrella, coins, shoes, armchair… come alive in imagination, fantasy and melancholy.
His junk-dealer universe, his bouquiniste banter mix memories of military service, priests on bicycles, magic mirrors.
His work is a bestiary in which filthy dogs, butterflies, bats and all the animals of the ark frolic.
Between Sempé and the Gotlib of
Rubrique-à-brac
, Fersen draws in songs a strange and facetious world where stranglers cultivate their roses, lions and gnats face off in single combat, gravediggers dream of a dish of paupiettes and the prisoners, mounted pieces.
Read alsoThomas Fersen or the love of enchanted words
The singer, it is undeniable, more than a tone, invented...
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