Cet été nous partirons quelque part...
This summer, we will go somewhere...
acrylique, huile et matériaux
acrylic, oil and materials
146 x 178 (dyptique)
Détails
Textes pour approfondir
Fond d’atelier
(English below)La mort d’un artiste tient généralement davantage de la déconfiture que celle d’un homme ordinaire. Il y a dans ce genre d’événement quelque chose de chaotique, d’encombrant et presque de ridicule. Les artistes sont des gens qui ont produit et entassé des œuvres toute leur vie. Ils ont espéré vendre, être compris, reconnus et, parfois même, entrer dans l’histoire. C’est presque toujours raté ou en grande partie raté. Ils laissent juste un affreux barda, un atelier avec ce qui s’y est accumulé année après année.Leurs héritiers se rendent vite compte que tout cela est très volumineux et complètement passé de mode. On ne peut pas garder tous ces trucs au prix où est le mètre carré. On en donne aux voisins, aux amis et aux amis des amis. Malheureusement, ils ne sont plus si fanas que ça, les amis et voisins, maintenant que c’est gratuit. Ils en veulent bien un ou deux, et encore, c’est par affection pour le défunt. On n’ose pas jeter les œuvres qui restent. On les entasse dans un grenier ou dans un cagibi. Dix ans après, vingt ans après, on met à la poubelle les toiles qui ont moisi et celles qui sont crevées. À chaque déménagement, le lot diminue. Et puis, tout est oublié, tout est perdu. Oceano nox !J’avoue que cette perspective m’angoisse un peu. C’est pourquoi j’ai imaginé par anticipation une sorte d’exercice d’évacuation, comme on en fait pour se préparer aux incendies. L’important dans les catastrophes, c’est de les aborder avec ordre. J’ai donc essayé de rassembler dans cette rubrique une espèce de fonds d’atelier présentable, bien rangé, bien étiqueté. J’y ai mis des toiles anciennes qui m’ont donné du mal et dont je me souviens bien. Certaines sont vendues et perdues de vue, d’autres sont quelque part dans ma réserve. Elles sont là, dans cet espace virtuel. Elles attendent tristement d’être découvertes ou redécouvertes, comme ces personnes qui font tapisserie dans les soirées. Personne, ou presque, ne comprend les trésors d’amour qu’elles recèlent. Elles vieillissent sur pied. Moi, je les aime toujours.
Studio contents
The death of an artist is generally more of a collapse than that of an ordinary person. This kind of event has something chaotic, cumbersome and almost ridiculous. Artists are people who have made and stored works throughout their lives. They hoped to sell, to be understood, to be reputed and sometimes become part of history. This almost always failscompletely or to a great extent. They just leave an awful accumulation of stuff—a studio that grew year after year.Their inheritors soon realise that all this forms a vast volume and is completely out of fashion. You can’t keep all this stuff with property prices per square metre being what they are. You give some to the neighbours, to friends and to friends of friends. Unfortunately, the friends and neighbours are no longer as enthusiastic as they used to be, now that the stuff is free. They would like one or two and that is by affection for the late artist. You don’t dare to throw away the remaining items. You pile them up in an attic or a cupboard. Ten years later, twenty years later you throw out the canvases that are mouldy or torn. The batch decreases in size every time there is a move. And then everything is forgotten, everything is lost. Oceano nox!I admit that this prospect worries me a little. So, in anticipation I have designed a kind of evacuation exercise, as is done to prepare for fires. For catastrophes, the important thing is to address them in an orderly manner. I have therefore tried here to assemble a kind of studio stock that is presentable, well ordered and well labelled. I have put in old canvases that I put a lot of effort into and that I remember well. Some were sold and disappeared from view and others are somewhere in my stock. They are there—in this virtual space. They are waiting morosely to be discovered or rediscovered, like the people who are wallflowers at evening events. Nobody, or practically nobody, understands the treasures of love that they possess. They are ageing standing up. I still like them.
Studio contents
The death of an artist is generally more of a collapse than that of an ordinary person. This kind of event has something chaotic, cumbersome and almost ridiculous. Artists are people who have made and stored works throughout their lives. They hoped to sell, to be understood, to be reputed and sometimes become part of history. This almost always failscompletely or to a great extent. They just leave an awful accumulation of stuff—a studio that grew year after year.Their inheritors soon realise that all this forms a vast volume and is completely out of fashion. You can’t keep all this stuff with property prices per square metre being what they are. You give some to the neighbours, to friends and to friends of friends. Unfortunately, the friends and neighbours are no longer as enthusiastic as they used to be, now that the stuff is free. They would like one or two and that is by affection for the late artist. You don’t dare to throw away the remaining items. You pile them up in an attic or a cupboard. Ten years later, twenty years later you throw out the canvases that are mouldy or torn. The batch decreases in size every time there is a move. And then everything is forgotten, everything is lost. Oceano nox!I admit that this prospect worries me a little. So, in anticipation I have designed a kind of evacuation exercise, as is done to prepare for fires. For catastrophes, the important thing is to address them in an orderly manner. I have therefore tried here to assemble a kind of studio stock that is presentable, well ordered and well labelled. I have put in old canvases that I put a lot of effort into and that I remember well. Some were sold and disappeared from view and others are somewhere in my stock. They are there—in this virtual space. They are waiting morosely to be discovered or rediscovered, like the people who are wallflowers at evening events. Nobody, or practically nobody, understands the treasures of love that they possess. They are ageing standing up. I still like them.