fran·

Biography

Born between two countries, two centuries, and two astrological signs, precisely on the day of the spring equinox (give or take forty-eight hours), fran· decided to remain on the margins: “because it’s easier to breathe there,” they say. 

Writer, performer, and tinkerer of portable utopias, they write and perform poems, theater, and other unidentified forms to celebrate revolt, gentleness, and necessary disorder. Their work, born from the immense weariness of having to exist within overly restrictive categories, transforms exhaustion into a survival strategy, rest into an act of sabotage, and vulnerability into a weapon of mass joy.  

Graduate in film (University of Rennes 2), visual arts (École Supérieure d’Arts et Média, Caen), and creative writing (Bern University of the Arts), they prefer small upheavals to lasting stability. Supported by various cultural institutions in Switzerland and abroad (France, Japan, Nepal), fran· steadfastly pursues a clear objective: to navigate chaos without drowning, and to gather fragments of joy within it, without losing their sense of humor. 

Artist Statement

My work solves nothing. It doesn’t even try. Here’s the thing: I grew up impossible. I never understood the world around me, nor why I couldn’t understand it. Often, I was declared twisted, not quite fit for purpose, and I tried, tried, tried to contain myself, to conform, to stay calm, to stick to the plan.

Unfortunately, I forgot to take my meds and to listen properly in church: all the voices inside started taking up more space, one by one or all at once, and it became a mess. An intense, immense mess, a chaos worthy of my childhood room, birthing wild inventions with Legos spread across the floor.

Of course, I tried not to listen, tried not to answer the call because I knew it was too heavy for my tiny shoulders, but it was futile. So, rather than let myself be crushed, I dove into the chaos, and since then, I’ve been trying to accept it and to give birth to new wild inventions (with words: they float more than bricks, and they aren’t made by some big capitalist corporation, lol).

My poetry was born from this: from the panic of facing the chaos and all the possibilities it offers. From the panic of seeing oneself constantly changing, of standing on the world’s thresholds, between exhaustion and the urge to act, between revolution and the nap, between the need for solitude and the need for community. My language itself sits at the crossroads: a mix of imprecations, internet slang, mythological references, video game quotes, Swiss-isms, and a few sentence structures all my own.

At the end of the day, the situation is simple: I’m tired, I’m radiant, but I’ve stopped waiting for the festivities to begin: I’ve put my hands right into the mess, and I’ve started organizing the party.