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


Here are links to see cartoons of wich I speak in the text 
No illustrations but follow links on those links to see more visual

About Olivier Rameau

About Philemon (the picture in view)

To the gallery Synthesis illustrated this




 and since décember, 2014,  architectural sketches
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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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