Thomas Witte

It all starts with a desire to say the body. Very early on, I made a point of copying it, of reproducing it. I studied its shape, its complexion. I inspected its insides, its anatomy, seeking to appreciate its mechanical Beauty. But where does this desire that haunts me come from?

I evolved in a world where modesty was required. The naked body covered, but yet clearly visible, displayed all around me on the walls of the city, smooth on glossy paper. My gaze as a charmed and eager teenager stumbles on the periphery, on the surface of these voluptuous and stereotypical forms.

It was through the history of Art that I discovered the body. I remember, there were hours of childish meditation, fascinated poring over Rembrandt's Doctor Tulp's anatomy lesson. It was my front door. There's something there. I have to dig. I continue the thread of History, Rodin, Schiele, Bellemer and many others mark this path. Always further, deeper, more incisive. Facing the white canvas, and in my turn, I too want to capture this body. Brushstrokes are projected onto the canvas. The oil spreads in coarse spots, I brush, spread, wipe, scrape to recover the whites. From this chaos of forms, an architecture is born, the fruit of a secret and intuitive journey. A track. I cut, outline and specify, I anatomize the material, I make accidents. I summon the body, it emerges, it comes to tell me its story. I clarify it and reveal it and if necessary I amputate. From this hunt a body eventually materialized. I leave him there to rest, the fruit of an embrace that will only pass once.

Painting is the material that I sculpt, the material that speaks to me, the one that tells me stories.