Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Cross the line

Saturday, June 14, 2014 - 03:10 p.m. - Maisons Alfort
Before starting drawing in 2006, we went to visit the Art Brut Museum in Lausanne with two friends. I was at the end of my first year at the school nurse of Digne in  Provence, in a period as we sometimes passes through that encourages crossing the line .
During the class of psychiatric diseases, we had talked about art therapy, a nurse had brought us some achievements of the workshop of the hospital and several books about Outsiders . Quickly these unequal productions fascinated me. Returning from that trip to Switzerland, I took a large sheet and said no matter what happens on this paper, it is not important.

I started with a text, a line had to dance. So I recopied these words and their meaning became secondary, curves progressed under my fingers. At one point, the text has not been enough, my pencil extended interlacing, only the gesture mattered, what it creat was an anecdote, nothing in fact, funny shapes, curves, small fluid inflections, floppy.
Forget what was being done, the meaning, purpose, look at the line, it was soothing. The finished design was what I call a hideous ugliness, totally incoherent mess but this time had been magical, seeking nothing, no purpose barely to finish it, useless, it didn't mean anything, it was particularly unsightly and I wisched to start again, again, again, again.
I continued constantly, when a sheet was over another, without respite whenever possible, most often.

After some drawings, an irresistible organization has taken place, gestures came more easily. I always said, no matter, no matter. There was this possibility of filling, coloring between the lines, make flat tints without overflow, without the brushstroke of felt shows. The line defines openings, brick color, scribbles. The finished drawing, pinned to the wall to watch it again, allowed for dive back into the magical feeling and extend it. They were not ugly, twisted, wacky indeed, something to work on, the next time I try to group colors, what if I made a monochrome ?
I realized by looking at them of the strength of this line, it did not disappear with the flat tints, continued to exist self-governing. Different graphics come back, there is those filled loops I call the Random,  the Mazes which are curves closed on themselves, and the Without-why very denses Randoms. Depending on my mood, one or the other technique meets the need of the moment.
It's always the same drawn line, a ritual that invents itself in as with rules that should not be break. The line stops only if I put the pencil and picks up another, otherwise she has no right to stop - in Without-why it is as long as possible, as long as I sustain, sometimes 15 minutes with just one pencil. It crosses in Randoms but never in Mazes, open in Randoms - curve with a beginning and an end - and closed in Mazes - beginning joined the end and closes the curve so I have to be careful constantly to which is inside and which outside to never cross the line.
Rules are magical, no two identical colors side by side in a flat tint, no black, no straight lines, and the traces of the felt have to be not apparent. Before starting drawing, the choice of line’s colors - the skeleton - and flat tints - the bricks -  is meticulous. I have developed colors palettes, color charts which facilitate my decisions. As time went, I invent new rituals, the one of  color becomes important beyond the gesture, if I decide to use a range of colors, such as blue, I empty one by one all possible shades, uses markers in the order and did not return when used.
There are lots of little rituals, I don't always realize they surround me but performs them scrupulously. Don't cross the line, this is what makes possible and magical the production of these drawings , if the ritual is not running properly I can't draw.

My sons look at my drawings with fun, especially my oldest, why don't you do make shapes appear? But how could anything loom in there, it's not possible!
There are times when the usual gesture get empty , clumsy felts , tired, jaded. Once again it's no longer workable, why not try these forms, go further, juxtaposing colors of the same tone - that I shouldn't do normally, whatever, whatever, it’s no big deal, at worst it be ugly, anyway you're not doing a masterpiece.
Something is happening, between the lines these forms exist, make it appear is not easy, they fend off and the choice of colors is tricky. But the ritual allows the form to appear. The three techniques evolve, Randoms become figurative, tones organized in Mazes, Without-why when I really dont know how to do.
My drawings builds as these crossings limits, when no one really knows what is going on, imposed fences fall down, opportunities open up. Then, after the crisis is over, rules restart, the ritual barely metamorphosed, still in place, guide my gesture and protect it.

Small, I liked to read Olivier Rameau, this cartoon of a magical world on the other side real-world-where-people-are-boring. There were stories of mirror to be crossing through, parallel world, transformations. After that, I gone to Philemon, another dimension slightly more disturbing but probably even more captivating.
Cross the line, leaving the track, go caps, reverse the course of his own existence, exceed the white line, out of context, the hidden face of the mirror, only such secret places interest me. This is not about searching subversion, become off-the-law, fuck the system, all this bullshit.
My report to law is rather inflexible, raised in a specific context, we remain on the path where we are supposed to run, we follow the rules, you don't kidding about it, we don't even cheat. By a coincidence I got out of the frame, no plans, no matter. When you have went of the track you remade others, you know there is always something beyond the trail, you go back, continuous research, initially unconscious, over time more and more assumed, what can happen to me, it does not matter.

Back to my handdrawings, my lines, my rules, my magic ritual. There is always a moment when it is not enough, you have to go to another technique, recreating the moment no matter for that to happen,  only having the urge of this free line under my fingers, no prerequisites ideas, want to rip the stage, no matter what happens on this sheet, it is not important.
On the occasion of a visit to Paris, in the appartement's son, gone away for the Christmas holidays, I travel light, sketchbook, pencils, pens, we'll see. Back near my former school of architecture in the 19th, the park la Villette, the Buttes Chaumont where I took children, want to go too far once again, overstep the border, cross the line,  what may happen to you?
It is no longer one felt marker into my hands but a pencil core, a lead pencil. The lines come out on their own, it's a bit painful, passages still are, but it works. Normally I don't use black pencil, but now it's time, no matter. Normally I would never interrupt the line and don't make straight lines. It's time to do just the opposite, the unthinkable, short and dry line intersections at right angles, a kind of smaller crosses overlap. A very old gesture is repeated, buried, forgotten I thought, I spent my childhood, my adolescence doodling it everywhere, he filled the margins of my college years and high school, my grades into the architecture untied and structured it. I call these moments catharsis. They come back with more and more regularity, I start to tame them.

The need to get out of the frame, tearing the stage set requires to invent another one. Initially the idea is not a creation but destruction, erase the world surrounding me, I will be better without it, but the nothingness is not within my reach the whole time, you have to constantly replace it, turn around, delimit,  on the line. Maybe my rituals have only the goal to approach it, as preparatory ceremonies it will make it flat, I regularly overturns the altar, dethrones the icons, not totally, at least I try.

Month of June, several recent events prompt me to cross the line, to repetition, this is no longer painful, the path is signposted, I’m wary of the edge's traps, one must necessarily grow old.
I'm taking again my felt markers abandoned in recent months, something happened, this time impossible to act as if I didn't know. I know my frontier and how to jump over, just to get started, no matter what happens. Beginning with fine felt I focus on the line, I know it will need to get over, give up my rite, forward. Cross the line! That's what I do, the line is intersecting, allowing to mix Random, Maze and Without-why.

This Synthesis was unthinkable, there were no links between the different techniques because they do not express the same thing, especially because the ritual of each was its own. Cross the line! The latch skips, possibilities become almost limitless, nevertheless immediately the frame reappears, flat tints devote the ritual, not juxtapose colors, inside, outside, follow the line, to one side or the other, the time to get over I switched over in the mirror.

Rituals assist our lives, preparing to the passages, protect them. There is no disembodied gestures or a succession of meaningless moments, instead they focus on the meaning and do it appear, the meaning of the line, cross it or not, why and when.
Overstep the line has never been a game but a necessity. When the ritual is well done, when it is fulfill, metamorphoses illuminate, they are seen finally, we accept them or not, we can choose the new rules, cross the line, interrupt it, to close or open it, stay on the ridge or fill dents, densify or lighten.
And when you decide say no matter, no matter what happens.

myriam eyann


> Illustrations
Posted at 20:34 - 0 comment

Friday, June 13, 2014
The eye of the tiger

Friday, June 6, 2014 - 6:15 - At the mill

The look of a tiger can't be forgotten. Normally, in the unprotected Nature, into the wild, if this look is crossed this is the last . It was in a zoo, modern zoos where we give the taste of freedom to animals without totally plunging them into it. We passed under a glass tunnel from which we could see a magnificent tiger safely. Between him and the audience a thick translucent wall allowed the audacities, those such as these kids pulling her tongue, doing the monkeys to mean You will not have me, outlet game kid in connection with the meeting of man-eater.
The tiger was lying peacefully in one or two meters of the tunnel and watched what was going on with attention and a hint of condescension. The agitation that took place behind the glass captivated him visibly, his gaze watch one by one little fellows that were gesticulating in front of him.
Who saw a cat freeze to observe his prey will include, the pupil which dilates,  the body tense as a strung bow, concentration seems to erase what exists around it. The tiger had not quite this tension, he knew that these silhouettes were inaccessible.
The situation was both grotesque and indecent, this animal and its untamable power in the face of children disrespectful of it, glass wall between two worlds, who is poking fun at the other?
I was watching this tiger, fascinated by its concentration, fascinated by his fascination, his eyes were lingering on each child and really saw him,  the expression eat gaze had to be invented to felines. Inevitably, our eyes finally intersect. A look of fear can't be seen, it slips away, flees foreign pupils perhaps for not to be devouring,  of the gaze.
I had this little reaction, but no,  then the desire to see it, to dive myself in his eyes, is what we were here for, discover, watch the animal kingdom, try to understand? Does my pupils have been dilated ? The sensation of being naked, no mask can deal with this tiger, an inescapable presence, he probed me , unequivocal,  it was that of the predator. If the window had not existed, my own would have been the one of the prey. This tiger hypnotized me, I thought about Shere Khan in the Jungle Book, you mix everything,  it is the snake that hypnotizes, that of Dysney 's Robin Hood Triste Sire, the Prince Jean's counselor Persifleur , returned to my memory. Sensation of paralysis and attraction, I can't make a move and have  the paradoxical desire to get closer, at least to stay there in the eye of the tiger, snapped up, caught me alive. The glass was not a staging, it was essential for the meeting but nevertheless it was not the game, there was usurpation.
I could bow my respect to this look and also I was ashamed to be on the side of those who hold power and busted through the eyes of an insane animal. Maybe I was more grotesque and indecent that thoses kids who didn’t know what they were doing.

I have a complex relation ship to  paralysis, stop times, dilated pupil, the position of contemplation is probably so innate in my case than for any feline. My relationship to look can become as an abyss, nature has invented the eye to observed it, to be admired, to be liked, to see it, look at it, recognize it, touch, meet, reach, eat, devour, and understand. Contemplate is a coronation that renews itself every day. To appreciate something you have to look long, the eye shape, over about what he sees the look get used to, better recognizes, sees faster, probe further. In architecture the look is what builds space. Sound perceptions, hearing, olfactory, tactile indeed, the reality of a space is first visual. By dint of sketches, observations, tracks, lines, thick lines or crosshatching, one end up liking what one knows. After having been sketching so many of these forms on paper, the obsession is in my eyes.


When we were young, sometimes we were allowed to stay in the lab of my father when he was developing his photos. You had to sit on the stool, there and you DON'T MO-VE at all! I didn't make noise, it's dark, Daddy is tinkering in red light or in complete darkness when it's about color. I stand still, don't have to deconcentrate him, sometimes whistling, I expect the shapes to appear on paper, sometimes we have the right to hold the small plastic clip and flip the photo in the tray, gent-ly slow-ly, other times it's really long and he cautioned that one could not get out straight away, one can't open the door, it could last half an hour, maybe more. When you come out of the lab, feel to wake up, airlock out and then want  to also return a little, it was rather funny to be in the dark, nose picking and nobody sees , make grimaces or have an idiotically unthinkingly, believe it's like night and we have the right to be awake.
During my studies of archi on the occasion of a photography course, the lab school recall my memories, tinkering in trays is funny, there are always one or two regulars who give lots of advice and shake the paw to whatever comes in, a wizard side that I like. I test developer, solarization, but it is damn complicated, a chemist job, maybe not my concern indeed, photo shoots on the street stress me out a bit, be the one who wants to see , people watching what I do, hard to assume the loop, gaze, my eye through the lens. Photo of archi is a specialty of or of architect or of photographer. It was probably too soon. The technical in photography is unavoidable as it is essential to learn the materials, their strengths and opportunities, constructive rules, constraints of land, of sunshine, when you want to see a building come true. So I did not become a photographer.

Since I was small I see pictures, exhibitions, installations, objectives and I don't understand much about it. Without paying attention my gaze has been formed, framing, detail, I look at the pictures of Dad, those of others, I have several at home. I don't know how to do it, I frame as Dad taught us, Be careful there you cut the head, hand, foot, you have to put people at the center of the photo, it's a shame the details here, but what have you done is fuzzy! I think of my classes, the teacher criticized our contact sheets, there it's good this small band, look this geometry it's interesting , this is rather anecdotally there you have some interesting lines. With a little concentration I find the framing, the right angle, the right place, the light that goes well, the proper perspective.

Digital reactivated my access to the photo. It's fun, easy, accurate, much shorter than the film, much cheaper too. I don't pretend to nice shot, I want a collection, a materials library, an art library, continue to immerse my gaze in the lines, shapes, textures, shadows, unhooked, details, materials, find a point of view, a graphic, an abstraction, my fascinations, contemplate. I turn around buildings, come closer, on tour I scan, I'm looking without thinking, turning a look a pinion is laid bare, volume salient here, stacking cubes, a curve that go with, smokestacks, towers communication, strains forests on roofs, brick and glass, frames, moldings, cornices, identification, where been post for the right picture, the right time, I pass, returns to the same places, finally get off and take out my mobile . Finally he makes better photo than my digital camera already old. I feel my eyes in metamorphosis, it happened to me from time to time to have this feeling, as the result of indigestion that has begun to hurt me a little uncomfortable, the obsession moves , bulimia which eventually sicken me. I know it takes a few days, let it go, digest without forcing, my gaze continues to evolve, the head turns slightly, inevitably something is moving in my visual center.

One must love what one devours, look long, take ownership, change of energy from one eye to the other, from the object to the eye, since my optic nerve, integrate, absorb energy, at least he not disappear. If you don't devour your dream, life will do it, that sentence of St Exupéry calmed me, I discovered there shortly, it sound as a promise, devour is a good way since it has bifurcations to dreams. When I'm not busy devouring what I see, I swallowed phrases in my reach. Exit contemplation is probably what is the most delicate, but how shall we do, on can't remain paralyzed all the time. What is happening in my mind, in my body through my eyes, is currently described as Elvis Presley in 1956 When you Looked into my eyes - I Stood there like I Was Hypnotised - You sent a feeling to my spine - A feeling warm and smooth and fine - But all I Could do stand were stand there paralyzed . No doubt we are not talking about the same thing. No doubt.

What we see in another look, in another script, another contemplation is probably only oneself. Does two glances can be mixed, really share what's compose them, on one side or the other, coming through. Stand within the place of the tiger, maybe it was me who hypnotized?
Object, subject, of course I mix everything but the important thing is the dream devouring.

myriam eyann

> Here is the song Paralysed - Elvis Presley
Posted at 17:14 - 0 comment

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There are authors who write with light, others with blood, with lava, with fire, with soil, with mud, with diamond powder, and finally those who write with ink, the unfortunate, with ink simply.

Pierre Reverdy, Le Livre de mon bord