Monday, April 7, 2014
Cave and the Winter Garden from Dubuffet

Shortly before starting to draw, I had a dream.
I was stuck in a large cave not quite beige, a little dirty, not scary, but rather tasteless and unsurprisingly, and I was trying to get out. I found a staircase that had all the promise of an exit. Inevitably, he rode! Top of the stairs, however, a closed door. The passage existed, there was his track again, Anyway I remembered to have borrowed this issue now condemned.
I knew what was behind that door, a large terrace to look far away, sun, wind, blue sky, space, many space. I had been there before, but I knew it was not really an issue. A lure at most.
I went down. The atmosphere was totally boring, so insipid, I had no desire to stay in the cave. The walls were rounded inshell, as in the Barbapapas'home. There were scattered, full turnstile color mounted on wooden rods, I don't know how to call that toys turning with the wind (or if they have a name) .
There was no wind, but the toys turned vaguely. I didn't even look at these colors, or realize that I saw them, they existed spite of my indifference. These toys were the only living part, the only thing that could hold my attention in this no man's land. However it was not what I scanned, but the available space, the form and essence of the place, the sense that I could take.

The outcome didn't exist, I had to deal with what was there. I ordered the door to the stairs myself, long before, in another space-time, because it led to a place where I no longer wanted to go. The terrace is another space, another possibility, which it is also impossible to escape. This is a final step that leads to nothing, only just a little contemplation. The only way to go is to turn back, or else straddling the parapet, you can jump into the void. But it has never been imaginable that my story would be grabbed by nothing, not even in a dream .....

I started to draw, momentarily forgetting my dreams of cave.
Tenacious family legend tells that my greatest pleasure when I was small was to put in order, my crayons and schoolgirl’s felts by shades and align them before me like a treasure. Sometimes it is believed that the river runs dry, but sometimes it reappears a short distance away after a forgotten underground passageway. The use and contemplation of the colors became at that time the source of my drawings.

A few years later, I discovered The Winter Garden by Dubuffet, during a visit to the Musée d'Art Moderne of the City of Paris.
It is a kind of white cave, motley thick black lines, all battered; One enters through a heavy door remains open, enlightens all. The base is lightweight, the footsteps resound, it is the feeling of walking on the hollow. Everything is bumpy floor and walls, uneven. Irresistibly I sit on a ledge, there are several arranged here and there. I look at the ceiling of the cave, more random than the roof terrace of the Casa Mila in Barcelona. Everything is white, milky, any noise. I am unable to go. And why would I? Why not stay there as long as possible? Appeasement experienced resting me in this sculpted architecture has never find an equivalent elsewhere. If I could I would stay there again.
On returning to my small apartment, I watched the wardrobe, only piece capable of being converted. To start I said to myself, it will be good, although a little cramped, but I soon find a home where my cave accommodate.
Three moves later, my breeding project (plagiarism, yes, I admit !) is still pending. It is sometimes more difficult than you think to carry out dreams.

Dreams caves to another, as Robinson in her spotless hose, I finally make a drawing called of course "Cave". This title is probably not very original, but it is not about a singular distinguish me that my fellow, rather to stage a necessary regression , to feel deep inside me an inseparable atavistic origin of my humanity: what could be more original than a cave to get to draw?
One will say: "What pretentious! "especially since the human in question is a woman here, but after all there is no evidence that Lascaux was painted by a man (a boy I mean!).
It will be said: "What Pride" pretend back to the original artistic gesture, and why not gesture demiurgic creator!
I don't have so many intentions. I throw some curves as is my habit, reveals a feminine form on the left side, develops, and not knowing how to finish the drawing, I stick her colors after arms at fingertips because I don't know how else.
Running the drawing I told myself my dream cave again, I mentioned the sacred serenity felt in the garden Dubuffet, and without realizing it, invented legend to my drawing, all personal and secret then. The story exists only if I tell, and I can't imagine anything else when I see this picture. The desire to build, spread the colors in my shelter, the need to stay there and not leave my refuge, even caulking leaks, anyway there are no other issues.
The story is now part of my brain, indelible, like the color of my markers supposed to be "permanent", we are reassured as we can, as black lines sculptures by Dubuffet.
All this might be pathetic, but it is not because I continue to dream of the cave on the walls which I would draw one day.

May 14, 2012

myriam eyann


Spring 2009
Marqueurs on bristol  50 x 70 cm



Here a visual of the Winter Garden of Dubuffet

Some french explications about this production 

About Jean Dubuffet (not translated)  

Jean Dubuffet Foundation

About Robinson, I refer to a book of Michel Tournier "Vendredi ou les limbes du pacifique"  published in 1967
In this story, the author  is interested in the psychic survival of Robinson, and imagine periods of regression where he cowers in a remote hose of his cave during several hours and sometimes fully days.

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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.

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