 |
 |
|
|
- O nostalgie des lieux qui n’étaient point
- assez aimés à l’heure passagère,
- que je voudrais leur rendre de loin
- le geste oublié, l’action supplémentaire!
- Revenir sur mes pas, refaire doucement
- - et cette fois, seul - tel voyage,
- rester à la fontaine davantage,
- toucher cet arbre, caresser ce banc...
- Car n’est-ce pas le temps où il importe
- de prendre un contact subtile et pieux?
- - Tel était fort, c’est que la terre est forte;
- et tel se plaint: c’est qu’on la connaît peu.
- (R.M.Rilke - “Vergers”)
I cannot paint by imagination, because I am not creative. But that does not affect me. What I feel is that drawing for me is not to produce something of beautiful: it is a way to enter a fluid contact with the atmosphere which encircles me, a way of exceeding impotence. A tree can scarcely be petted itself, and only in its trunk; sometimes, a flower can be caressed; but how can we caress bloomed meadows? How can we touch with loving and affected hands the undulations of the hills, the rippling of the waves in a lake? It is to this - sensuous - need of contact that my painting answers. For a long while, my eyes follow native shapes; then my hand caress them, following with the lines of pencils their pliant or rough, their sharp or uncertain directions. What else do the colours add?
| Please write |  |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
This site is hosted by |  |