An island, Madagascar, has a connection with MM. The important thing is not that he was born there in 1957 but that he returned there when the man and poet he had become knew what he was looking for. In Moramanga, his birthplace, he found traces of desert geomancy, invented when men drew constellations with their fingers on the sand. Brought to the island by Arab and Persian traders from the 9th century, it took the local form of divination by seeds (acacia and tamarind) called "sikidy". A great master of sikidy lived in Moramanga. He initiated it, gave it a name, Avane, rainbow (arc-en-ciel) in Malagasy. When he manipulated the letters, it became Arcel Iracle. The two M's of his old signature in front of each word and Marcel Miracle was born.
A man, he, Miracle, in the shape of an upside down question mark, an observed observer of all this turmoil that is taking shape before his eyes. If the man is not there, there is the eye. We often find him hidden in the corner of his room, sitting between the three lines at 120° that make the triangle of his world opened by a single door, sometimes a window with bars, and in some cases a stepladder. Marcel Miracle draws his world with nothing: the recurring signs of his alphabet to tell his stories, the detritus picked up on the edge of the sidewalks to stick to the fantasies of his transformism, the words escaped from his unchained solitude to make a poem of each lived moment. Two old bits of tangled shoelaces make the flight of an albatross. Nothing has become something.
When the show stops in an exhibition room, we see, on the wall, the isolated forms of a poetic movement that seizes all the artistic means at Marcel Miracle's disposal to make the desires of his imagination come true. Having allowed himself one day to move the center of the circle to the periphery, he got rid of the limits of logical reason. He is now free to climb a sole on horseback or to walk at night among the dunes in the company of djinns towards the lost civilizations that taught us language.