Le Figaro Magazine, 27 September 2019 - Letter from Mika to Michael

[mellody]

This was posted by @NaoMika in the French press thread - I think it's worth a thread of its own...

 

16 hours ago, NaoMika said:

This article read like a personal letter to Michael Holbrook Penniman Jr. from MIKA himself.  

 

Le Figaro Magazine

 

Mika par Mika

Jean-Christophe Buisson
1367 words
27 September 2019

PAR MIKAPHOTOS : FRANÇOIS ROELANTS

 

En pleine tournée triomphale aux Etats-Unis, le chanteur sort son nouvel album en France le 4 octobre. En exclusivité pour “Le Figaro Magazine”, il s'est livré à un autoportrait aussi sincère qu'original.

 

Ton nom est Michael Holbrook Penniman Jr., tu es né en 1983 à Beyrouth. Une enfance en transit entre un Liban rouge sang, un Paris doré et un Londres noir fluo. Mon nom est Mika, je suis né en 2006 à Miami. Quatre chansons envoyées aux maisons de disques avec des boîtes coloriées, déferlante mondiale. Tu es ce garçon étrange qui erre somnambule la nuit dans les rues du XVIe arrondissement. Ce garçon mutique, souffre-douleur d'une institutrice sadique, qui se sauve. Je suis ce personnage espiègle qui s'épanouit dans un bordel magnifique et chaleureux. Ce personnage joyeux qui rêve au rythme des claquettes dans le salon transformé en atelier de couture soyeux. Plus jeune, je détestais qu'on m'appelle Michael. En même temps, je ne t'ai jamais vraiment perdu de vue… Life in Cartoon Motion c'était moi, c'était toi déjà. A moi les rythmes pop acidulés comme les chewing-gums de notre enfance. Ces gommes parfumaient le sac de notre grand-mère. A toi les mots sur la transition violente de l'adolescence à l'âge adulte.

 

Tu as toujours trouvé qu'il y avait une certaine beauté dans la tristesse, une certaine élégance au spleen oriental. J'ai toujours lutté contre cette mélancolie intime, cette anxiété qui souvent me ronge. Excessif, insatisfait chronique, je ne veux pas te décevoir Michael. Lors de l'enregistrement du dernier album, au printemps, j'en ai même perdu ma voix. Après avoir signé pour mon premier album, j'ai souffert des oreillons. Effets secondaires des défis qui m'apaisent et du danger qui me fouette. Suis-je à la hauteur ? Serai-je compris ? Est-ce que je réussirai une nouvelle fois à séduire mes juges imaginaires ? De quoi est-ce que je me punis ? Même dans le dark, il y a du fun. Si tu es sur le point de pleurer, je te dis « danse ».

 

« Tu finiras célèbre ou en prison », répétait notre mère. Quelquefois, les deux se ressemblent, alors pour te libérer, je crée. Artiste et artisan. Créer comme respirer, manger, boire. Une commedia dell'arte à moi tout seul. Secoue cette boule à neige géante avec la musique, maîtresse turbulente, les costumes bariolés et les décors absurdes. Un cabinet de curiosités féerique dont l'origine se trouve dans ces mallettes remplies de cassettes audio que tu classais par émotion et par couleur ou dans ces maquettes de théâtre que tu collectionnais passionnément. Créer pour cultiver la différence, entretenir la joie et maintenir dans l'obscurité les démons. Michael assis sur le canapé rouge a vu les huissiers vider notre grand appartement. Michael avec son nœud papillon et son short rose a reçu des cannettes et des pierres sur la tête. Créer pour tenir à distance du regard de la foule l'homme que tu es. Ces regards braqués sur toi sur la scène du Royal Opera de Londres quand tu chantais dans Die Frau ohne Schatten, de Richard Strauss. Ces corps en sueur hurlant mon nom quand je chantais Grace Kelly au Parc des Princes. Je lui ai donné une part de ton intimité, à cette foule. J'ai appris à lui faire confiance. Dès le début, par petites touches dans mes chansons tout en m'en défendant. « Je ne veux pas que l'on m'étiquette, seule ma musique compte », était ma réponse lorsque les curieux m'interrogeaient sur ta sexualité. Leur insistance à te coller une identité immuable me révoltait. Peu à peu, j'ai accepté de leur livrer tes rires, tes larmes, tes engagements. Notre seule identité, c'est la culture. Le bâtard culturel, comme disaient nos parents, s'est mué en esthète éclectique. La peinture, la musique classique, la littérature, la mode te cachent.

 

Je me nourris de toi Michael mais je te protège. Notre tribu nous protège. Les femmes fortes… Notre mère battante qui t'envoie jouer au parc et te confie à une chanteuse d'opéra russe. En anglais, growing up s'utilise autant pour un homme que pour une fleur. Grandir, fleurir grâce à Joannie. Nos sœurs fusionnelles.

 

Paloma miraculée, que tu as failli perdre à jamais une nuit de 2010. Elle rend possible l'impossible.

 

Jasmine, essentielle coloriste des songes qui entre dans ton esprit pour coucher mon imagination sur le papier.

 

Zuleika, précieuse comme les pierres qu'elle polit pour ses bijoux délicats.

 

Les hommes fidèles…

 

Notre père, présent dans tous les moments clés de la vie, qui t'a appris la liberté.

 

Michael, l'ex-otage, que tu appelais par son prénom à son retour du Koweït parce qu'il n'était plus tout à fait lui.

 

Notre frère qui te ressemble tant, Fortuné, architecte né des caprices du destin.

 

Enfin notre compagnon, Andy, le pudique, qui m'offre la constance malgré les périls.

 

Tous sont l'archange Gabriel venant à la rencontre de la Vierge dans L'Annonciation de Fra Angelico sur les murs du couvent San Marco, à Florence.

 

Florence, Londres, Paris, Los Angeles… Te souviens-tu face à l'étang de Kensington Square, tu rêvais de te transformer en canard, oiseau migrateur capable de voler et de nager. Aujourd'hui, je vis de ville en ville, de continent en continent. Les avions ont remplacé la Toyota Previa blanche des parents. Tu ne ruses plus dans les hôtels pour dormir à sept dans une seule chambre. J'aurais plutôt tendance à être seul dans une suite où toute la famille et les amis pourraient festoyer jusqu'au petit matin. Mais si demain tout s'arrête, si demain tout disparaît, je me réinventerai, saltimbanque aussi à l'aise dans les palais que dans les bas-fonds. J'ai 36 ans, j'aime l'empreinte du temps sur ta peau, les traces des douleurs sur ton visage. L'avenir ne te fait pas peur parce que j'ai toujours faim.

 

Avec ce nouvel album portant ton nom, je te laisse une place immense, je reviens sur tes pas. Je recommence à zéro, semblable et différent à la fois. Pendant deux ans, je n'ai rien pu écrire. J'étais dans ma bulle, en mouvement, à l'affût mais silencieux. Les disques, les tournées, la promo, la télé ici et ailleurs, j'ai laissé Mika la pop star prendre trop de place dans ta vie. J'avais perdu l'étincelle. La flamme s'est pourtant ravivée au moment où la lumière était plus rare… Ce fut la lumière blanche des cabinets médicaux pour ma mère. Ce fut la lumière sombre des cérémonies d'adieu. La mort d'Odette d'abord, notre grand-mère qu'on appelait mère, parce qu'à 34 ans, elle s'estimait trop jeune pour avoir des petits-enfants.

 

Finalement, le temps a gagné. Il a aussi rattrapé Bella qui veillait sur notre famille à Londres. My Name is Michael Holbrook est né de cette période d'introspection et de disparition. Mes textes, ce sont tes souvenirs, tes sensations. Mes mélodies, ce sont tes vieux Polaroid qui peuplent le grenier. La vie défile comme un paysage projeté en transparence derrière les vitres d'une voiture immobile dans un film en Technicolor… Les cheveux blonds de Grace Kelly au vent… Monte le volume de l'autoradio au maximum.

 

Alors, j'ai pris la route du sud des Etats-Unis. Papa y a grandi sans frontières, fils de diplomate. Maman s'y est réveillée à la fin d'un American dream brisé un jour de krach boursier. Dans les allées du cimetière de Bonaventure, à Savannah, je retrouve tous ces Michael Holbrook Penniman gravés dans la pierre. Michael, prénom inscrit à l'état civil, par tradition paternelle… Mika, prénom donné quelques heures après ta naissance par amour maternel. Nous nous mélangeons comme les couleurs des boules de glace sous la chaleur intense du soleil. Alors, l'enfant terrible demande à l'Homme libre : « S'il te plaît, reste étrange. »

 

MICHAEL HOLBROOK PENNIMAN JR./MIKA

 

 

English translation by @crazyaboutmika:

Italian translation by @*Denise*:

 

[NaoMika]

PDF Files

 

 

76_Le Figaro Magazine.pdf 77_Le Figaro Magazine.pdf 78_Le Figaro Magazine.pdf

[Anna Ko Kolkowska]

50 minutes ago, Martyna said:

Oh, wow. Reading his interview for Paris Match I almost immediately thought about the letter he wrote to himself on his 30th birthday- a letter for himself in 50 years, where he also mentioned loss... and now another even more personal letter!

Mika can't really give us a break! So many emotional moments lately. 

And we are only one weak from MNIMH. Leave us some tears for later 

Yes. I remember this letter too. I have even saved it on my computer. It's so beautiful.

And now this letter. 

[silver]

4 hours ago, mellody said:

This was posted by @NaoMika in the French press thread - I think it's worth a thread of its own...

Could someone please adjust the Google translation? Some parts are really hard to understand.

 

 

 

I'm working my way through correcting the translation but I'm not sure I've got all the nuances right - maybe a French speaker could check? (I haven't got to the end yet).

[*Denise*]

Just translated in italian too! 

Amazing letter..I love this new Mika/Michael. Now he's finally free, peaceful, happy even fighting against problems like the mum's bad conditions...In love.
Can't wait to hear MNIMH and fall in love again with him. Looking forward for the tour  as well!!

ITALIAN:

In piena tournée trionfale negli Stati Uniti il cantante fa uscire il suo nuovo album in Francia il 4 ottobre. In esclusiva per Le figaro Magazine si è offerto per un autoritratto sincero ed originale.

Il tuo nome è Michael Holbrook Penniman Jr, sei nato nel 1983 a Beirut. Un’infanzia in transito tra un Libano rosso sangue, una Parigi dorata e una Londra nero fluo.

Il mio nome è MIka, sono nato nel 2006 a Miami. Quattro canzoni inviate alla casa discografica con confezioni colorate, ondata mondiale.

Tu sei un ragazzo singolare che vaga sonnambulo durante la notte nelle vie del XVI arrondissement.

Questo ragazzo muto, sofferente per colpa di un’insegnante sadica, che si salva.

Sono questo personaggio birichino, che sboccia in un casino magnifico e caloroso.

Questo personaggio gioioso che sogna al ritmo del tip-tap nel salone trasformato in atelier di cucito vellutato.

Da più giovane detestavo chi mi chiamava Michael. Nello stesso tempo non ti ho mai perduto veramente di vista.

Life in cartoon motion ero io, eri già tu.

Sono io i ritmi della pop pungenti come i chewing gum della nostra infanzia. Queste gomme profumavano le borse di nostra nonna.

Sei tu le parole sulla violenta transizione dall’adolescenza all’età adulta.

Hai sempre trovato una certa bellezza nella tristezza, una certa eleganza di malinconia orientale (spleen oriental è poco traducibile). Ho sempre lottato contro questa malinconia intima, questa ansia che sovente mi tormenta.

Eccessivo, cronicamente insoddisfatto, non ti voglio deludere Michael.Durante la registrazione del 1 album in primavera, ho anche perduto la voce. Dopo aver autografato il mio primo album ho preso l’otite. Effetti secondari delle sfide/problematiche che mi si presentavano e del pericolo che mi frustava. Sono all’altezza? Sarò compreso? Riuscirò nuovamente a conquistare i miei giudici immaginari?Di cosa mi punisco? Anche nell’oscurità c’è del divertimento. Se sei sul punto di piangere di a te stesso Danza!

Tu o sarai famoso o finirai in prigione. Ripeteva nostra mamma.

A volte le due cose si assomigliavano e quindi per liberarti creavo.

Artista ed artigiano.

Creare come respirare, mangiare e bere. Una commedia dell’arte tutta per me.

Scoute questa palla di neve gigante con la musica, maestra turbolenta, i costumi colorati/variopinti e le decorazioni assurde.

Uno studio di curiosità fiabesco del quale l’origine si trova in queste valigette piene di cassette audio che tu classificavi per emozione e per colore o queste maschere di teatro che collezionavi con passione.

Creare per coltivare la differenza, conservare la gioia e mantenere i demoni nell’oscurità.

Michael seduto sul divano rosso ha visto gli esattori svuotare il nostro appartamento. 

Michael con il suo papillon ed i suoi pantaloncini rosa ha ricevuto lattine e pietre in testa.

Creare per tenere a distanza dalla folla l’uomo che tu sei.

Questi sguardi puntati su di te sulla scena del Royal opera house di Londra quando tu cantavi Die Frau ohne Schatten di Richard Strauss. Questi corpi sudati urlavano il mio nome quando cantavo GK al Parc des princes. Ho donato lui una parte della tua intimità, a questo folle.

Ho imparato a fidarmi. Fin dall’nizio da piccoli tocchi nelle mie canzoni tutto mi difendeva. “Non voglio che mi si etichetti, solo la mia musica conta”. era la mia risposta quando i curiosi mi interrogavano sulla tua sessualità. La loro insistenza ad incollarti una identità immutabile mi faceva rivoltare. Poco a poco ho accettato di offrire le tue risate, le tue lacrime, i tuoi impegni/coinvolgimenti. La nostra sola identità è la cultura. Il bastardo culturale ,come dicevano i nostri genitori, si è trasformato in un esteta eclettico.

La pittura, la musica classica, la letteratura, la moda, ti nascondono.

Ti alimento Michael ma ti proteggo. La nostra tribù ti protegge. Le donne forti….nostra madre combattente che ti manda a giocare al parco e ti affida ad una cantante d’opera russa. In inglese Growing up si usa sia per un uomo che per un fiore. Crescere, fiorire grazie a Joannie. Le nostre sorelle unite.

Paloma miracolata, che hai fallito ner perderla per sempre una notte del 2010. Rende possibile l’impossibile.

Jasmine, essenziale disegnatrice dei sogni/pensieri che entrano nel tuo spirito per permettere alla mia immaginazione di posarsi sulla carta.

Zuleika, preziosa come le pietre che lucida per i suoi delicati bijoux.

Gli uomini fedeli…

Nostro padre, presente in ogni momento chiave della vita, che ti ha insegnato la libertà.

Michael, l’ex ostaggio, che tu chiamavi di nome dopo il suo ritorno dal Kuweit perché non era più simile a se stesso.

Nostro fratello che tanto ti somiglia, Fortuné, architetto nato dai capricci del destino.

Infine il nostro compagno Andy, il pudico, che mi offre la costanza malgrado le difficoltà.

Tutti sono l’arcangelo Gabriele che viene ad incontrare la Vergine nell’annunciazione di Fra Angelico sulle mura che coprono S Marco a Firenze.

Firenze, Londra, Parigi, LA, ti ricordi di fronte ad un laghetto a Kensington Square, tu sognavi di trasformarti in un’anatra, uccello migratorio capace di volare e nuotare. Oggi, vivo di città in città, di contintente in continente. Gli aerei hanno preso il posto della toyota previa bianca dei genitori. Tu non ricorri più a trucchi negli hotel per dormire in 7 in una camera sola. Avevo piuttosto la tendenza ad essere solo in una suite dove tutta la famiglia e gli amici potevano festeggiare fino alla prima mattina. Ma se domani tutto si ferma, se domani tutto sparisce, mi re inventerò, saltimbanco tra gli agi nei palazzi come nei bassi fondi. Ho 36 anni, amo l’impronta del tempo sulla tua pelle, le tracce di dolore sul tuo viso. Il futuro non ti fa paura perché hai sempre fame.

Con questo nuovo album che porta il tuo nome ti lascio un posto immenso, ritorno sui tuoi passi. Ricomincio da zero, simile e diverso nello stesso tempo. Durante due anni non ho mai potuto scrivere. Ero nella bolla, in movimento. alla ricerca ma silenzioso . I dischi, il tour, la promozione, la tv qui e altrove, ho lasciato che Mika la pop star prendesse troppo posto nella tua vita. Avevo perduto la scintilla. La fiamma si è comunque ravvivata nel momento in cui la luce si è fatta più rara. È stata la luce bianca degli ambulatori medici per mia mamma. È stata la luce scura delle cerimonie di addio. La morte di Odette prima, nostra nonna che chiamavano mamma, perché a 34 anni lei si credeva troppo giovane per avere dei nipoti.

Alla fine il tempo ha vinto. L’ha raggiunta Bella che vegliava sulla nostra famiglia a Londra. MNIMH è nato da questo periodo di introspezione e scompasa.

I miei testi sono i tuoi ricordi, le tue sensazioni, le mie melodie sono le tue vecchie polaroid che popolano la soffitta. La vita scorre come un paesaggio proiettato in trasparenza dietro un vetro di una macchina immobile in un film in Technicolor, I capelli biondi di Grace Kelly al vento, alza il volume della radio al max.

Allora, ho preso la strada sud degli usa. Papà ci è cresciuto senza frontiere, figlio di diplomatici. Mamma qui si è risvegliata alla fine del sogno americano rotto un giorno dal crac della borsa. Sulla strade verso il cimitero di Bonaventura a Savannah, ho trovato questi Michael Holbrook Penniman scritti sulle lapidi in pietra. Michael, primo nome iscritto allo stato civile per tradizione paterna. Mika, nome donato qualche ora dopo la tua nascita per amore materno. Noi siamo mischiati come i colori delle palle di gelato sotto al calore intenso del sole. Allora, l’enfant terrible chiede all’uomo libero: Ti prego, resta strano.

Edited September 27, 2019 by *Denise*

[Gabry74]

It's a very deep letter, not easy to write and to understand in its entirety. He finally found his ego and is trying to make it live with his artistic side. Many questions arise, many problems that I honestly never did in 45 years. He had a very difficult childhood and adolescence, which caused him indescribable anger and anguish. He suffered for years, but now he is aware of the man who has become and is processing all his past, to try to have a peaceful future for himself and for those around him.

[crazyaboutmika]

1 hour ago, silver said:

 

I'm working my way through correcting the translation but I'm not sure I've got all the nuances right - maybe a French speaker could check? (I haven't got to the end yet).

I will @silver

[mellody]

And I think that's exactly what the Tiny Love video shows.

 

I only vaguely remember the letter he wrote to his older self, need to go searching for it - that was in his Italian column, right?

[krysady]

4 minutes ago, mellody said:

I only vaguely remember the letter he wrote to his older self, need to go searching for it - that was in his Italian column, right?

 

Yes, this is the letter: https://site.douban.com/132805/widget/notes/5647238/note/300151929/

 

Edited September 27, 2019 by krysady

[crazyaboutmika]

2 minutes ago, mellody said:

And I think that's exactly what the Tiny Love video shows.

 

I only vaguely remember the letter he wrote to his older self, need to go searching for it - that was in his Italian column, right?

Yes Mellody

This new letter is very emotional  He says so much and I love him even more and I just want to hug him and tell him how much we love him and that we always love both Mika and Michael with all our hearts

[crazyaboutmika]

Here it is  @mellody

 

 

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I decided to write an open letter to my older self. I can not read this letter again until the eve of my 80th birthday.
Dear Mika, I hope this finds you well. I have no idea where in the world you will be when you read this. My life so far has been made up of so many twists, turns and contradictions, that there is no way of predicting where or how you will be. For starters, I just hope you are alive! Even if the world has become a terrible or hostile place, without water and without seasons, I still hope you’re in it. Not because I want to maintain my presence for as long as possible, but just because I’m curious and you’re my only way of finding out.
You may wonder why I’m writing this, but the reason is quite simple. A lot of noise is made about someone turning 30. Yes, you can laugh, you’re about to turn 80. The only reason why I think we care is that childhood along with adolescence has been eroded. The normal transitions of life before adulthood don’t exist any more. We live a sort of ‘kidulthood’ for far too long and suddenly we hit 30 and have no more excuse. A 30 year old, a hundred years ago, was approaching the twilight era. You however, at 80, are probably not even considered old any more. I wonder how your health is and how long you might actually live? 100? 120? Perhaps you live in an augmented reality, which covers up all the destruction of the last 100 years. I hope that’s not the case. I hope things are still green and there is still winter and summer. What scares me the most, is that now as I turn 30, I don’t believe things as basic as seasons and fresh air are guaranteed in the future.
As those around me have been making a fuss about my 30th, this is my retaliation. As a boy, the only secret power I ever wanted was to freeze time. In order to relish a little longer in moments I loved and to reap vengeance on those who hurt me. This is me freezing time just for a moment. Like a capsule or a message in a bottle. Beyond that I don’t care about my age, as long as I am free.
I am writing this from the basement of my house in London’s World’s End. There’s a car engine outside making noise. My mother has just popped over to have a cup of tea and my dog is asleep in the corner. They will all be gone when you read this. I have never faced death, you have. How lucky you must think I am to have those I love around me in the flesh. Don’t romanticise too much however. They are not so perfect up close you know? So far I have seen terrible things happen to people I love dearly, but I’ve never lost any of them. You have and I’m sorry for the pain it caused you. I’m sure you’ve made some pretty amazing friends though. Not just the glamorous famous ones. Those ones I know already, come and go so fast, but real friends. I hope they are strange and keep you weird. Please stay weird.
In the world right now, the US and the UK are spying on us and no one can do anything about it. Even Obama is unable to take a hard line on the subject. The Middle East is in turmoil and the incredible city of Aleppo which you visited at 25 is pretty much destroyed. In Russia, the government is turning viciously and bizarrely anti gay, as a result of the bigotry of the powerful orthodox church, but marriage in Europe and America is looking positive. Except in Italy, God knows about that! I wonder if you have children and how you got those, as I already know for sure that you haven’t hooked up with a chick. I hope you have kids, I hope they look like me. And what about Music!? OH GOD I wish I knew what that would sound like in the future.
I could go on for ever, but I must stop. Please remember, we are not so different you and I. If you read this, and do not recognise the hand or the voice, something has gone terribly wrong. If you feel a little embarrassed, that’s OK. In the words of Doris Day, “che sera sera”. That’s true, but I can’t help but feel, that in the chaos of cause and effect that forms our future, the tiny action of writing this letter might change something further down the line. One thing, I hope your not bald, if so, wear a hat.
With all the love in the world,
You x
 

 

 

 

Edited September 27, 2019 by crazyaboutmika

[Anna Ko Kolkowska]

45 minutes ago, crazyaboutmika said:

Here it is  @mellody

 

 

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I decided to write an open letter to my older self. I can not read this letter again until the eve of my 80th birthday.
Dear Mika, I hope this finds you well. I have no idea where in the world you will be when you read this. My life so far has been made up of so many twists, turns and contradictions, that there is no way of predicting where or how you will be. For starters, I just hope you are alive! Even if the world has become a terrible or hostile place, without water and without seasons, I still hope you’re in it. Not because I want to maintain my presence for as long as possible, but just because I’m curious and you’re my only way of finding out.
You may wonder why I’m writing this, but the reason is quite simple. A lot of noise is made about someone turning 30. Yes, you can laugh, you’re about to turn 80. The only reason why I think we care is that childhood along with adolescence has been eroded. The normal transitions of life before adulthood don’t exist any more. We live a sort of ‘kidulthood’ for far too long and suddenly we hit 30 and have no more excuse. A 30 year old, a hundred years ago, was approaching the twilight era. You however, at 80, are probably not even considered old any more. I wonder how your health is and how long you might actually live? 100? 120? Perhaps you live in an augmented reality, which covers up all the destruction of the last 100 years. I hope that’s not the case. I hope things are still green and there is still winter and summer. What scares me the most, is that now as I turn 30, I don’t believe things as basic as seasons and fresh air are guaranteed in the future.
As those around me have been making a fuss about my 30th, this is my retaliation. As a boy, the only secret power I ever wanted was to freeze time. In order to relish a little longer in moments I loved and to reap vengeance on those who hurt me. This is me freezing time just for a moment. Like a capsule or a message in a bottle. Beyond that I don’t care about my age, as long as I am free.
I am writing this from the basement of my house in London’s World’s End. There’s a car engine outside making noise. My mother has just popped over to have a cup of tea and my dog is asleep in the corner. They will all be gone when you read this. I have never faced death, you have. How lucky you must think I am to have those I love around me in the flesh. Don’t romanticise too much however. They are not so perfect up close you know? So far I have seen terrible things happen to people I love dearly, but I’ve never lost any of them. You have and I’m sorry for the pain it caused you. I’m sure you’ve made some pretty amazing friends though. Not just the glamorous famous ones. Those ones I know already, come and go so fast, but real friends. I hope they are strange and keep you weird. Please stay weird.
In the world right now, the US and the UK are spying on us and no one can do anything about it. Even Obama is unable to take a hard line on the subject. The Middle East is in turmoil and the incredible city of Aleppo which you visited at 25 is pretty much destroyed. In Russia, the government is turning viciously and bizarrely anti gay, as a result of the bigotry of the powerful orthodox church, but marriage in Europe and America is looking positive. Except in Italy, God knows about that! I wonder if you have children and how you got those, as I already know for sure that you haven’t hooked up with a chick. I hope you have kids, I hope they look like me. And what about Music!? OH GOD I wish I knew what that would sound like in the future.
I could go on for ever, but I must stop. Please remember, we are not so different you and I. If you read this, and do not recognise the hand or the voice, something has gone terribly wrong. If you feel a little embarrassed, that’s OK. In the words of Doris Day, “che sera sera”. That’s true, but I can’t help but feel, that in the chaos of cause and effect that forms our future, the tiny action of writing this letter might change something further down the line. One thing, I hope your not bald, if so, wear a hat.
With all the love in the world,
You x
 

 

 

 

I love this article. I keep it on my computer and I read it from time to time.

I wanted to repost here but I can see I am not the only one to have it close to me 

 

Now we have another letter to himself - to his alter ego....

His style of writing always knocks me out!  Mika is a master of words. In whatever language you read him.I am sure that when one day he publishes his book it will be a bestseller! 

Edited September 27, 2019 by Anna Ko Kolkowska

[Kumazzz]

 

 

 

 

http://www.lefigaro.fr/musique/mika-par-mika-autoportrait-d-un-esthete-eclectique-20190927

 

[Kumazzz]

1 hour ago, mellody said:

that was in his Italian column, right?

Mika, Pop Up XL 89 (English version): “An open letter to my older self (Turning Thirty)” (September 2013)

 

 

 

On the eve of my 30th birthday, I decided to write an open letter to my older self. I can not read this letter again until the eve of my 80th birthday.

 

Dear Mika, I hope this finds you well. I have no idea where in the world you will be when you read this. My life so far has been made up of so many twists, turns and contradictions, that there is no way of predicting where or how you will be. For starters, I just hope you are alive! Even if the world has become a terrible or hostile place, without water and without seasons, I still hope you’re in it. Not because I want to maintain my presence for as long as possible, but just because I’m curious and you’re my only way of finding out.

 

You may wonder why I’m writing this, but the reason is quite simple. A lot of noise is made about someone turning 30. Yes, you can laugh, you’re about to turn 80. The only reason why I think we care is that childhood along with adolescence has been eroded. The normal transitions of life before adulthood don’t exist any more. We live a sort of ‘kidulthood’ for far too long and suddenly we hit 30 and have no more excuse. A 30 year old, a hundred years ago, was approaching the twilight era. You however, at 80, are probably not even considered old any more. I wonder how your health is and how long you might actually live? 100? 120? Perhaps you live in an augmented reality, which covers up all the destruction of the last 100 years. I hope that’s not the case. I hope things are still green and there is still winter and summer. What scares me the most, is that now as I turn 30, I don’t believe things as basic as seasons and fresh air are guaranteed in the future.

As those around me have been making a fuss about my 30th, this is my retaliation. As a boy, the only secret power I ever wanted was to freeze time. In order to relish a little longer in moments I loved and to reap vengeance on those who hurt me. This is me freezing time just for a moment. Like a capsule or a message in a bottle. Beyond that I don’t care about my age, as long as I am free.

 

I am writing this from the basement of my house in London’s World’s End. There’s a car engine outside making noise. My mother has just popped over to have a cup of tea and my dog is asleep in the corner. They will all be gone when you read this. I have never faced death, you have. How lucky you must think I am to have those I love around me in the flesh. Don’t romanticise too much however. They are not so perfect up close you know? So far I have seen terrible things happen to people I love dearly, but I’ve never lost any of them. You have and I’m sorry for the pain it caused you. I’m sure you’ve made some pretty amazing friends though. Not just the glamorous famous ones. Those ones I know already, come and go so fast, but real friends. I hope they are strange and keep you weird. Please stay weird.

In the world right now, the US and the UK are spying on us and no one can do anything about it. Even Obama is unable to take a hard line on the subject. The Middle East is in turmoil and the incredible city of Aleppo which you visited at 25 is pretty much destroyed. In Russia, the government is turning viciously and bizarrely anti gay, as a result of the bigotry of the powerful orthodox church, but marriage in Europe and America is looking positive. Except in Italy, God knows about that! I wonder if you have children and how you got those, as I already know for sure that you haven’t hooked up with a chick. I hope you have kids, I hope they look like me. And what about Music!? OH GOD I wish I knew what that would sound like in the future.

 

I could go on for ever, but I must stop. Please remember, we are not so different you and I. If you read this, and do not recognise the hand or the voice, something has gone terribly wrong. If you feel a little embarrassed, that’s OK. In the words of Doris Day, “che sera sera”. That’s true, but I can’t help but feel, that in the chaos of cause and effect that forms our future, the tiny action of writing this letter might change something further down the line. One thing, I hope your not bald, if so, wear a hat.

With all the love in the world,
You x

 

(Illustration by DaWack)

 

 

Mika, Pop Up XL 89 “Caro Mika, anche se hai 80 anni spero che tu sia ancora eccentrico”

La versione integrale di “Pop Up”, la rubrica scritta da Mika per XL 89 di settembre 2013.

L’illustrazione è stata realizzata da DaWack, sorella dell’artista

di Mika - 13 settembre 2013

 

Alla vigilia del 30esimo compleanno ho deciso di scrivere una lettera aperta a me stesso più adulto. Non potrò rileggere questo messaggio fino alla vigilia del mio 80esimo compleanno.

 

Caro Mika,
non ho idea in quale parte del mondo tu sarai quando leggerai questa lettera.  La mia vita finora è stata costellata da tanti colpi di scena, cambiamenti e contraddizioni, che non c’è modo di prevedere né dove sei e neppure come stai. Per cominciare, spero solo che tu sia ancora vivo! Anche se la Terra sarà diventata un posto terribile e ostile, senza acqua e senza stagioni, spero che tu ci sia ancora. E vorrei che tu ci fossi non perché voglio rimanerci il più a lungo possibile, ma solo perché sono curioso e tu sei il mio unico modo di scoprire come è diventato il mondo.

 

Ti puoi domandare il perché ti stia scrivendo e la ragione è molto semplice: si fa un gran parlare a proposito del compiere 30 anni forse anche perché fino a un centinaio di anni fa a 30 anni la vita era quasi del tutto compiuta e si entrava in una sorta di crepuscolo. L’unico motivo per cui penso che adesso questo traguardo anagrafico sia interessante e sia considerata una tappa importante, è che ai 30 davvero accade qualcosa. Si diventa consapevoli. Negli anni precedenti, i confini che demarcano la differenza tra fanciullezza e adolescenza sono molto labili; mancando le transizioni nette da una fase all’altra, si vive fino a questo limite una sorta di “fanciuldezza” come se l’età adulta e la fanciullezza fossero la stessa cosa. Improvvisamente raggiungiamo i 30 e non abbiamo più scuse.

 

Prima ho detto del crepuscolo e tu ora certo riderai perché a 80 anni, probabilmente nemmeno sei considerato più un vecchio. Mi chiedo anzi per quanto tempo potrai ancora effettivamente campare? Fino ai 100? ai 120? Chissà, forse vivi in una realtà virtuale aumentata che nasconde tutte le distruzioni degli ultimi 100 anni ma spero che non sia così. Mi auguro che ci sia ancora il verde e ci siano sempre l’inverno e l’estate. Ciò che mi spaventa di più, ora che sto per compiere 30 anni, è che non credo che cose così elementari e naturali come le stagioni e l’aria fresca potranno essere sempre garantite in futuro. E non sai quanto vorrei che tu potessi rispondermi per tranquillizzarmi.

 

Mentre quelli intorno a me stanno facendo un gran casino per il mio compleanno, questa lettera che ti scrivo è come una mia piccola oasi; da ragazzino, l’unico potere segreto che ho sempre desiderato avere era quello di poter fermare il tempo. Per assaporare un po’ di più i momenti che amavo, oppure per potermi vendicare su coloro che mi avevano fatto male. Scrivendoti e scrivendomi, congelo il tempo per un attimo, come per infilarlo in una capsula o un mettere un messaggio in una bottiglia. E tutto ciò nonostante non mi interessi la mia età, finché mi sento e sono libero.

 

Ti sto scrivendo dalla cantina di casa ai confini di Londra. C’è un motore di un’auto fuori che fa rumore. Mia madre ha appena fatto capolino per una tazza di tè e il mio cane è addormentato in un angolo. Loro saranno morti, quando leggerai questo messaggio. Io non ho mai affrontato la morte, tu sì. Devi pensare, immagino, che io sono davvero molto fortunato perché ho ancora quelli che amo con me. Ma non farti idee troppo romantiche, lo sai che non sono così perfetti da vicino? Finora ho visto accadere cose terribili a persone che amo molto, ma non ho ancora mai perso nessuno di loro. Tu invece sì e mi dispiace tanto per il dolore che questo ti ha causato. Sono sicuro però che nel corso del tempo ti sarai fatto alcuni amici davvero sorprendenti. E non mi riferisco solo a quelli famosi, quelli che conosco già vanno e vengono così in fretta, ma intendo veri amici. Spero che saranno un po’ bizzarri e originali per mantenerti sempre un po’eccentrico. Ecco, ti prego di rimanere eccentrico.

 

Nel mondo in questo momento, gli Stati Uniti e il Regno Unito ci stanno spiando e nessuno può farci niente. Anche Obama non è in grado di prendere una decisione precisa sul tema. Il Medio Oriente è in subbuglio e l’incredibile città di Aleppo, che visitasti quando avevi 25 anni è praticamente distrutta. In Russia, a seguito del bigottismo della potente chiesa ortodossa il governo si sta trasformando in modo grottesco e brutale in anti-gay, però il matrimonio in Europa e in America è visto in modo positivo. Tranne  in Italia, Dio sa perché! Mi chiedo se hai dei bambini e come li hai avuti, perché so già per certo che non sei stato con una ragazza. Tuttavia spero che tu li abbia e che mi assomiglino. E che dire della Musica? Oh Dio! Vorrei sapere davvero che cosa e come si suonerà in futuro.

 

Potrei andare avanti a scrivere quasi per sempre, ma devo smettere. Ricordati che non siamo così diversi io e te. Se stai leggendo, e non riconosci la mano o lo stile, vuol dire che, purtroppo, qualcosa è andato terribilmente storto. Se ti senti un po’ confuso, va bene. Per dirla con le parole della canzone di Doris Day, «Que sera sera«. Questo è vero, ma comunque non posso fare a meno di immaginare e anche di sperare che nel caos di causa ed effetto che genera il nostro futuro, la sola piccola azione di scrivere questa lettera possa cambiare qualcosa a valle della linea, da me fino a te, fra 50 anni.

 

Una cosa, mi auguro è che tu non sia diventato calvo, nel caso, mettiti un cappello.

Con tutto l’amore del mondo,
io, te.

 

Traduzione di Paolo Klun

 

 

Edited September 27, 2019 by Kumazzz

[Paoletta]

amazing interview  @*Denise* grazie per la traduzione ora comprendo

[Kumazzz]

6 hours ago, NaoMika said:

PDF Files

 

 

76_Le Figaro Magazine.pdf 243.01 kB · 22 downloads 77_Le Figaro Magazine.pdf 410.91 kB · 21 downloads 78_Le Figaro Magazine.pdf 592.57 kB · 23 downloads

Thanks a lot for sharing.

 

JPG files

 

Page 76

 

 

Page 77

 

page 78

 

[crazyaboutmika]

So I fixed google translation

 

Mika by Mika

MIKA PHOTOS BY: FRANÇOIS ROELANTS

     

In full triumphal tour of the United States, the singer releases his new album in France on October 4th. Exclusively for "Le Figaro Magazine", he has engaged in a sincere and original self-portraitl.

Your name is Michael Holbrook Penniman Jr., you were born in 1983 in Beirut.  A childhood in transit between a blood red Lebanon, a gilded Paris and a neon black London.  My name is Mika, I was born in 2006 in Miami.  Four songs sent to record labels with colored boxes, worldwide. You're this strange boy who wanders sleepwalking at night in the streets of the sixteenth arrondissement. This mute boy,  the scapegoat of a sadistic teacher, who runs away.  I'm this mischievous character who thrives in a beautiful and warm brothel. This cheerful character who dreams to the rhythm of tap dancing in the living room transformed into a silky sewing workshop. Younger, I hated being called Michael.  At the same time, I never really lost sight of you ...  Life in Cartoon Motion was me, it was you already.  To me the pop rhythms acid as the chewing gum from our childhood. These gums perfumed the handbag of our grandmother. To you the words about the violent transition from adolescence to adulthood.

     

You always thought there was a certain beauty in sadness, a certain elegance in oriental spleen.  I have always struggled against this intimate melancholy, this anxiety which often gnaws at me.  Excessively, chronically dissatisfied, I do not want to disappoint you Michael.  When I recorded the last album in the spring, I even lost my voice.  After signing for my first album, I suffered mumps.  Side effects of the challenges that soothe me and danger that strikes me.  Am I up to it?  Will I be understood?  Will I succeed again in seducing my imaginary judges?  What am I punishing myself for?  Even in the dark, there is fun.  If you're about to cry, I say  "dance".

"You'll end up in jail or famous," repeated our mother. Sometimes the two are similar, so to release you, I create.  Artist and craftsman. Creating like breathing, eating, drinking.  A commedia dell'arte to myself.  Shake this giant snow globe with music, turbulent mistress, colorful costumes and absurd sets.  A cabinet of curiosities whose origin is in these cases full of cassette tapes you classify by emotion and by color or those model theaters you passionately collected.  Create to cultivate difference, maintain joy and keep the demons in the dark. Michael sitting on the red couch saw bailiffs empty our large apartment. Michael with his bow tie and pink shorts received cans and stones on his head.  Create to keep away from gaze of the crowd the man you are. These eyes on you, on the stage of the Royal Opera of London when you sang in Richard Strauss' Die Frau ohne Schatten. Those sweaty bodies screaming my name when I sang Grace Kelly at Parc des Princes.  I gave him a share of your privacy in this crowd.  I learned to trust him.  From the beginning, bit by bit in my songs while defending myself. "I don't want to be labelled, only my music counts" was my response when the curious questioned me about your sexuality.  Their insistence on sticking an immutable identity to me revolted me. Gradually, I agreed to give them your laughter, your tears, your commitments.  Our only identity is culture. The cultural bastard, like our parents said, has evolved into an eclectic aesthete.  Painting, classical music, literature, fashion hide you.

I feed on you Michael but I will protect you.  Our tribe protects us.  Strong women ... Our fighter mother sent you to the park and entrusted you to a Russian opera singer.  In English, growing up is used for both a man and a flower. Growing up, blooming with Joannie. Our fusion sisters.

     

Miraculous Paloma, who you nearly lost one night in 2010. She makes the impossible possible.

     

Yasmine,  essential illustrator of songs who enters your mind to put my imagination on paper.

Zuleika, as precious as the stones she polishes for her delicate jewelry.

     

Faithful men ...

     

Our father, present in all the key moments of life, who taught freedom.

Michael, the former hostage you called by his first name on his return from Kuwait because he was not really himself anymore.

     

Our brother who looks like you so much, Fortuné, architect born by whims of fate.

     

Finally our companion, Andy, modest, who gives me constancy despite the dangers.

All are the Archangel Gabriel meeting the Virgin in the Annunciation by Fra Angelico, on the walls of the convent of San Marco in Florence.

     

Florence, London, Paris, Los Angeles ... you remember looking at the pond in Kensington Square, you dreamed of turning into a duck, a migratory bird that can fly and swim.  Today I live from town to town,  from continent to continent. Planes have replaced the parents' white Toyota Previa.. You don't need to trick hotels anymore in order to sleep seven in one room.  I tend to be alone in a suite where the whole family and friends would be able to celebrate until dawn.  But if tomorrow everything stops, if tomorrow everything disappears, I'll recreate myself, an entertainer as comfortable in the palaces as in the slums.  I'm 36, I like the imprint of time on your skin, the traces of pain on your face. The future does not frighten you because I'm always eager.

 

With this new album bearing your name, I leave you a huge place, I go back on your steps.  I start from scratch, similar and different at the same time. For two years, I didn't write anything.  I was in my bubble, moving, on the lookout but silent.  The records, touring, promo, TV here and elsewhere, I let the pop star Mika take too much space in your life.  I had lost the spark.  The flame was rekindled again when the light was rare ... It was the white light of surgeries for my mother.  It was the dark light of farewell ceremonies. First the death of Odette , our grandmother we called mother because at 34, she considered herself too young to have grandchildren.

Finally, time won.  It also caught Bella who watched over our family in London.  My Name is Michael Holbrook was born from this period of introspection and demise.   My texts are your memories, your feelings.  My melodies are your old Polaroids that inhabit the attic.  Life will change as a transparent projected landscape behind the windows of a stationary car in a technicolor film ... Grace Kelly's blonde hair in the wind ... the volume of the car radio turned up to maximum.

     

So I took the road to the Southern United States.  Father grew up there without borders, the son of a diplomat.   Mom woke them at the end of an American dream shattered one day by the stock market crash.  In the paths of the Bonaventure cemetery in Savannah, I found all these Michael Holbrook Pennimans etched in stone.  Michael, first name written in the civil register, by paternal tradition ... Mika, first name some hours after your birth by maternal love.  We get mixed like the colors of ice cream scoops in the intense heat of the sun.  So, the enfant terrible asks the free man: "Please, remain strange. "■

     

    MICHAEL HOLBROOK PENNIMAN JR./MIKA

 

   

@silver

[carafon]

4 hours ago, mellody said:

And I think that's exactly what the Tiny Love video shows.

 

 

And I guess it's the interview with the flying duck  !

Edited September 27, 2019 by carafon

[Presci1108]

Again... I'm again moved... He's really good in writing and this text is really inspiring and emotional. 

And... well, I don't really know how I can say it... but I think I really love him like he is now even more... 

[Dominika]

This is amazing. I have no other words for this

[crazyaboutmika]

51 minutes ago, Presci1108 said:

Again... I'm again moved... He's really good in writing and this text is really inspiring and emotional. 

And... well, I don't really know how I can say it... but I think I really love him like he is now even more... 

Me too I used to love Mika,  now I love both Mika and Michael and with an even bigger love

Edited September 27, 2019 by crazyaboutmika

[crazyaboutmika]

1 hour ago, carafon said:

And I guess it's the interview with the flying duck  !

It was a geese he mentioned on his birthday live chat,  not a duck...unless he said the wrong word .Each time I type live chat I tend to type love chat as he had ...and it was indeed both since he called us his best gang

[mellody]

1 hour ago, carafon said:

And I guess it's the interview with the flying duck  !

 

7 minutes ago, crazyaboutmika said:

It was a geese he mentioned on his birthday live chat,  not a duck...unless he said the wrong word .Each time I type live chat I tend to type love chat as he had ...and it was indeed both since he called us his best gang

 

It's a goose on the TL cover - but they are migratory birds too, and belong to the same bird family, so I think it might not make a big difference to Mika. Wanting to be a duck sounds cuter than wanting to be a goose, and maybe the goose looked better on the cover. Anyway I agree with carafon that this is related. Though he mentioned the ducks / geese in another interview where he mixed up the words. In any case it's likely he has done these interviews before his birthday and referred to them in his live chat.

[carafon]

3 minutes ago, mellody said:

 

 

It's a goose on the TL cover - but they are migratory birds too, and belong to the same bird family, so I think it might not make a big difference to Mika. Wanting to be a duck sounds cuter than wanting to be a goose, and maybe the goose looked better on the cover. Anyway I agree with carafon that this is related. Though he mentioned the ducks / geese in another interview where he mixed up the words. In any case it's likely he has done these interviews before his birthday and referred to them in his live chat.

In French being a goose means being quite an idiot …….

[Anna Ko Kolkowska]

28 minutes ago, crazyaboutmika said:

It was a geese he mentioned on his birthday live chat,  not a duck...unless he said the wrong word .Each time I type live chat I tend to type love chat as he had ...and it was indeed both since he called us his best gang

I think that a person asking question used a word "goose" and now we are talking about geese. In English interviews he was talking about ducks.

But in one of the videos in Italian first he said "anatra" (a duck) and than he said that maybe it was "papera" (a little goose).

 

it starts at 2:22