Monday, April 7, 2014
Until peril, the Braque injury

Monday, December 30, 2013 - 12:00 - coffee Le Pére Tranquille (district of Les Halles in Paris)

Arrived to Les Halles, great renovation operation is ongoing, for more than 50 years this area was restructured, the project seems inordinate, the result may be up to par. This need to make his mark, scoring his time, to work, since when mankind is caught up in this whirlwind?

Back to Braque exhibition at the Grand Palais this morning, too crowded, jostling, no privacy to discover that deep in me maybe I know since a long time. Sharp lines, dry and precise, something brittle that has always captivated me, further curves, what am I doing, a desire to cry despite promiscuity, there is here a confirmation wich is no longer fearfull, no way to escape, I know it myself, these drawings in front of me can not deny it , so something is in me unintentionally . Figure out what has crept into my subconscious, the first reproductions of Braque views at the time I started debut architec, at the time of the first lines, intersections, contrast, gradients, read anything about him or whatever he wrote, a ghost in my fingers, how to come back to the tide, previously, _ afterward, maybe stay in my bubble would be better, continue to not watch anything will allow to see nothing.

In the bookshop, a gentleman said it's too hard, I understood one, the rest is too abstract. He is young, under 40, I fail to understand myself. Nothing more simple, more clear, what should be understand, there is anything to understand, how to do for not seeing these graphics, what incomprehensible could they countain? The impression of harmony, such an obvious order, logic. Tiny, I'm just a small thing, maybe I'll shut up until the end, stop drawing, on can not say anything, do anything after that. Nevertheless like after reading Romain Gary and other authors sometimes, irresistible need to extend the conversation passing in front of several drawings, put me to work, I must bumps, not arrested, plunges into it. At other times, crushed, this mass of people around me, who am I to say say anything, to draw?

Quote from Georges Braque in the book back from the exhibition: the artist must feed the paint, feed her of his flesh, his mind, almost until he lost consciousness, he have to lose his deep sens, to commit himself to perils in the way of complete fidelity. Art is an injury that becomes light.

Deep within me I'm left with nothing, the essential, what I am not supposed to lose, one say the only way is to give but looks at me, what is so scared, fall into the trap, believe to brigthness that would dwell in me, lose my goose with the golden eggs, rather not finding it . How Georges Braque's graphics 50 years ago dead could justify mine, why my gestures would reproduce without knowing it, why nothing new can happen?

About Georges Braque, French painter (1882 - 1963)

Le sacré coeur de Montmartre,  1910

Rétrospective Georges Braque au Grand Palais, Paris , 18 septembre 2013 - 6 janvier 2014

From Right to left
Zéo, Zelos, Héraclés, 1931
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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