Brisa Roché

Born in California, Brisa Roché grew up without electricity, surfing the waves generated by an artistic mother and an adventurous father. Brisa Roché settles in France and devotes herself to the night life of a jazz singer, to come back better, changelin composer, poet and producer, author for the moment of eight albums, to a singular song-writing of a weaver chameleon.  

Such is a life in ruminant music, an invisible substance, slow to burn, incandescence under high pressure of teamwork, with the necessary corollary: a solitary practice of plastic artist that implies a letting go. So what it causes in Brisa is a bulimia of painting, a return to training in the undergrowth, a revival of a volcanic manna from her wild childhood. This need to paint lives, persists tenaciously, rears tsunamis, balances his creative life in a living immediacy, maintains his solitude under hootenanic eurythmy Vorticist. 

The physicality of the material enchants him. A concrete, symbolic material, which is chosen as a tool of expression, in turn indocile, the hand of Brisa Roché. She who paints quickly, tames and does not tame, she who corrects and removes the fat from the lean to the absence of flax, restores necromancerous life to the looks that we thought had become intense dead, restores sensual coulure where once there were bodies, bloody sexes, pastellised diaphanous wings torn apart by urgently stuffed teeth. From the one, Brisa Roché, who allows herself, in everything she touches, the same insolent freedom, the same secret poetry. 

(La Brisa Day Roché & Merle Leonce Bone 2019)