With their unique pen and their own sensibility, artists in turn present us with their vision of the world around us. This week we’re giving Mariana Mazza carte blanche.

Posted yesterday at 9:00am

20th June. It’s 4:30 p.m., the wrestlers have arrived. comedians too. Rehearsals begin. It’s hard for me to believe that for a few moments tonight I’ll become what used to be my childhood protector.

The excited screams of the followers and the euphoric commentators rocked my Friday nights when my mother returned from her in the early morning change in the reception hall.

We’re shooting a special project where wrestlers and comedians mix their talents for one night.

I watch the wrestlers wrap their wrists Type electric by fixing the floor. One of them rubs coconut oil on his arms before lacing up his construction boots. His lumberjack character is only visual. Physically he could play the role of the tree he is cutting down, his body is shaped like that.

Wrestling is no joke. It’s serious. shots. The costumes. everything is true

My mom left us $20 on the kitchen counter so my brother and I could order whatever we wanted at the convenience store while we waited for the evening meal. Back then, Stone Cold Steve Austin, The Undertaker or Shawn Michaels often waited. At midnight, when the fight started, my brother nudged me to wake me up…

To date I had never witnessed a wrestling match in the ring. Seeing the muscles clench, the faces tense and the actors wiggle 2 inches from my face made me cheer.

Excited to be what I expected that early morning in our three and a half block of flats in North Montreal. I could never have imagined feeling the aching bonds in my lower back, the ring moving to the rhythm of our steps and being led by the wrestlers like in a violent waltz.

By the end of the evening, when the adrenaline had subsided, I had trouble walking. I had headache. I felt my heartbeat in my shoulder blades. And yet I had made the minimal effort to look spectacular. The more my pulse beat with pain, the more I admired these people who entertained the audience with their bodies and their screams.

And yet almost none of them make a living from wrestling.

“I’d love to make a living, but you gotta pay the bills. It doesn’t pay to squeak on volleys in Quebec. »

I am overwhelmed by the physical and mental strain that the wrestlers put on themselves for one evening. The next day, however, some of them get up as early as 5 a.m. to spread tar on the asphalt. As if the day before was just an illusion.

“But why don’t you go to the United States to fight? »

“We need work permits, we get turned around. There’s a gang that could have made it there, but when you get banned for five years it hurts to start all over again. »

You have to learn to fall, stand up, act and dance with the audience.

The fight is real. Like life.

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