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 Goerges Braque and restrospective at the Grand Palais
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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


> More about Jean Dubuffet
Posted at 5:22 - 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