Ceci n'est pas un bouquet 1, 2023

Trabys  

Painting without design (without drawing), organizing the chaos, rediscovering the tightrope walker stretched from the first gesture on the white canvas to the seven calligraphic lines that form my signature and, thereby, close the time of the painting. Between these two poles, time today is longer than fifteen years ago, more intense too, because if my hand remains the same, my eye has become more demanding.

My manias have become rites: staring at the blank canvas, long, hours of inaction, indecision, between apathy and meditation. Let the silence create the first gesture, and let go. Let the hand dance. Hours, days. Forget time to master the space of the canvas-chaos. Provoking ruptures, creative destruction. Surprise me, surprise me.

And then, at the end of the race, the last touches, more and more spaced out over the hours, until silence returned, before signing. Finally resume the humble gesture of the craftsman, clean the tools, the brushes, the palette. To clear the way for the next day, having forgotten everything, erased everything, return to drunkenness...