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Mais plus encore, c'est l'hybridation (lire ci-dessous)

Mais plus encore, c'est l'hybridation (lire ci-dessous) qui est au centre du travail de l'artiste belge. 獷n croisant depuis une quinzaine d'ann閑s, des poules issues de diff閞entes esp鑓es et de diff閞ents pays, Koen Vanmechelen esp鑢e cr閑r un poulet cosmopolite, symbole, selon lui de la diversit?globale. Par m閠aphore, il esp鑢e ainsi montrer que pour l'homme aussi la diversit?est avant tout une richesse.?Un travail repr閟ent?par les portraits g閍nts et color閟 des diff閞entes g閚閞ations de poules obtenues par l'artiste et un constat simul?par la pr閟entation de s閝uences Adn d'une de ces hybridations. 獻l appara顃 sur l'Adn du poulet obtenu par croisement, un nombre beaucoup plus important de "?picots?" que sur celui de ses parents, ce qui tend ?prouver une plus grande richesse des caract鑢es avec toutefois le maintien des sp閏ificit閟 de chacun de ses g閚iteurs. Un peu comme chez les chiens dont on dit que les crois閟 sont g閚閞alement plus intelligents.? Asics GEL LYTE III Mens

It’s just before first light and in

It’s just before first light and in the valley above my house the trees look set to topple in the wind. The gale force southwesterly has been a talking point for days among a certain group of people — me included—but not because of the damage it might do, or the rains that’ll come with it, or the simple impossibility of standing upright in a wind this severe. No, for me and every other surfer on Europe’s western seaboard, what has now arrived is an Atlantic Code Red. That means waves. Big surfable waves that are about as good as theyThe world’s richest enjoyed a bumper year last year, with Bill Gates reclaiming his crown as the world’s wealthiest person from Carlos Slim. 2013 Nike Free 3.0 V5

I was traveling through the Middle East,

I was traveling through the Middle East, a rare sight of a woman alone with her children. Everywhere we went, small children with large, dark, haunted eyes would watch my son and daughter as they laughed easily, teased each other and tried to talk to one another in Arabic from a small red phrasebook. One day we sat on a hot, dusty, crowded train. As the vista flashed by outside the window, a young boy, close to the same age as my son, sat across from us with his father. He watched quietly, seriously, as my children giggled, poked at one another and pointed out goats, mountains and beautiful rolling dunes awash in browns, soft pinks and ochers. My daughter turned to the boy and spoke a short phrase to him - "Hello; how are you?" - and suddenly he smiled, huge brown eyes lighting up and his face transformed into that of a beautiful and carefree young man. He began to answer when his father, eyes flashing, gave him a sharp reprimand in the universal language that every parent understands, the tone conveying words I understood in a language I could not. The boy cast his eyes downward. I looked at the man and attempted his language. "I'm sorry and it is not my business yet...why is it not alright for our children to speak with one another?" He looked at me and, with a small sigh, said "Our children are not the same." I said, "We are not wealthy people; you have no reason to dislike us." He barked a short laugh and said, "You, wealthy? You have riches. We -" he pointed at his breast, "we have wealth. We have the wealth that comes from true knowledge of our Creator, of our thousands of years of history, of our struggles. Of our losses. Of our families, of our heritage, of our culture. Your children have riches. Riches of the promise of a future. My son has wealth. But the promise of a future...?" He raised his arms heavenward in a fatalistic gesture and slowly turned his head to look out the window of the train. His proud face looked resigned yet strangely at peace. I woke up with tears running down my face.

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