I like to slip into the secret meanders of the Tronçais streams and observe the blond
sand covered with precious stones, agate, alabaster, milky jasper, honey-colored
amber, blond onyx, the brilliance of a ruby, obscure transparencies and a limpid
wave with moving shadows. The leaves, the color of old leather, quiver in the
current under the winter sun, embedded in a thin film of ice where immaculate
whites sparkle, hemmed with a very pure cobalt blue. Through the obstacles of
accumulated vegetal debris, all in shades of golden browns to the deep blacks of
sandstone loaded with tannins, the cauldron of Saturn bubbles in cascades, the one
where the elements of creation clash. The banks, made of white clay with bright
orange or bluish green beds, sometimes dripping with red blood or grey ash beds,
take on the appearance of steep cliffs pierced by a bundle of fine tentacles of black
mottled with blue.
I like to observe the split logs of old wood. The fiber and its emerald or chalky
white splinters draw the vast horizons of the high mountains in the early morning,
the strangeness of the rocks, the cave of Circe.
To take my booty of traces. To collect it like a secret treasure. Then to paint:
practice of alchemist torn off to the wellbeing of the contemplation, ascetic
peregrination through the language of the painting in a space out of the rational,
To confront oneself, a wanderer’s path, after having forgotten everything, with the
immaculate support of the canvas by the adventurous practice of elaborate
techniques. To choose scales, to architect spaces, to play with opacities or
transparencies. To put a final note of color?
To find the balance and the light, to thwart time, to extract its memory, to find