Lignes de vie

A promenade through the ages of life, time and space through six genealogical trees
Séparation histoires
Ligne de vie 1 (arbre généalogique d’un Homme)
2009 react. 2012 - Perles et acrylique sur bois - 63 x 124 x 30 cm
Ligne de vie 1 (arbre généalogiqued’un Homme)
2009 react. 2012 - détail
Ligne de vie 2 (arbre généalogique d’une famille)
2009 - Bois, perles, acrylique et plâtre sur bois - 133 x 95 x 31 cm
Ligne de vie 2 (arbre généalogique d’une famille)
2009 - détail
Mains (installation)
2009 - Acrylique sur papier recyclé - 75 x 131cm
Main de Marie
2009 - Acrylique sur papier recyclé - 75 x 131 cm
Ligne de vie 4 (arbre généalogique de la memoire)
2009 - Kaddish, perles, plumes, acrylique, cailloux et bonbons sur bois - 125 x 221 x 197 cm
Ligne de vie 4 (arbre généalogique de la memoire)
2009 - détail
Foules 2
2011 - âmes 42 à 81 en bronze sur socles en métal
Broderie journal 2 - Kaddish
2011 - Kaddich pyrogravé sur journal du 16 juillet 1942 - 41.7 x 59.7 cm
Ligne de vie 6 (Arbre généalogique de la vie)
2009 - Bois, coton et plumes sur bois - 78 x 160 x 78 cm
Genèse
2007 - Photographie

Genealogical trees of life

The Lignes de vie sculptures are genealogical trees.
Made of branches and additions, they draw their sap from roots laid bare.
History is in motion; the present and the past are redrawn at the whim of Chance. The ephemeral is found in the fragility of the constructions of the spirit, which builds from compounded fragments, deconstructed and reconstructed.
Each person creates the myth of their origin to be able to recount it. And with time, learning to read the fault lines of their own history, the myth becomes fragile and enriched; it is alive.
I strolled along the path of Man. I sometimes stopped on the lineages that told of whence we came without indicating where we are going.
The Lignes de vie sculptures are genealogical trees that tell a story; mine and yours.


Passages à l’âme

Unique, from past lives and stories, we come to the world to offer this unknown
Séparation histoires
Masque radio crâne 1
2013 - Encre et gaze sur radio - 43.5 x 51 x 8 cm
Les masques
2013 - Installation
Masque broderie radio main 1
2012 - Plumes brodées et prière pyrogravée sur radio - 51 x 38 x 8 cm
Les cris et l'oiseau
2013 - Installation de 30 radios et d'un oiseau en bronze - détail
Le cris - installation 2
Les cris et l'oiseau
2013 - Installation de 30 radios de cris et d'un oiseau en bronze
Livres de rêve
2013 - Installation de 4 livres de rêves - détail
Livres de rêve
2013 - Installation de 4 livres de rêves - détail
Livre de rêve
2013 - Installation de 4 livres de rêves - détail
Auto-portrait avec mon sang
2013 - Photographie
Auto-portrait avec mon sang
2013 - Photographie - sang rhésus O+ de l'artiste sur radio de crâne anonyme
Scanners
2013 - Intallation de 5 scanners sur socle en chène et versets de Ezechiel gravé dans le plexi.
Scanner livre 1
2012 - Scanner, fils rouges et verset Ezechiel 37, 17 sur socle en chêne - 21 x 29.7x 145 cm
Scanner livre 1
2012 - détail
Scanner bassin 1
2015 - Scanner, fils rouges et verset d'Ezechiel 3, 3 sur socle en chêne - 21 x 29.7x 161 cm
Scanner pied droit 3
2015 - Scanner, fils rouges et verset d'Ezechiel, 1, 9 sur socle en chêne - 21 x 29.7x 141 cm
Passages papier ciré
2013 - Installation sur 2 portants de 84 passages invisibles à l'encre gaze et cire sur papier ciré
Passages bois - les mères
2012 / 2013 - détail
Passages bois, les mères
2012 / 2013 - Plumes, fils rouges et perles sur mère en hêtre et enfants en bois de cornu - 130 x 255 x 120 cm
Les âmes
2013 - Installation de 8 radios, gazes et encre
Totem
2010 - Installation
Totem
2010 - Bronze sur socle centenaire et prières 73 x 260 x 64 cm
Totem
2010 - détail

Unique, from past lives and stories
we come to the world to offer this unknown

On the path of my freedom, I looked to where I came from, what I carried, who I was, what that meant. Abandoning for a moment the world which surrounds me, I went into myself to discover my sensitive and creative side; it brought me to gentleness and violence, to my births and my deaths, to the necessities of life.

On this tumbling road on the question of meaning, I bandage with certitude my bleeding worries. Who knows the intention of their soul? The why is nagging.
I look through two openings, a prism of the world. Isolated from myself, uncorrelated, parts of myself appear and disappear, creating the illusion of reality. The inside and the outside. A mask, able to signify the beautiful and the ugly, or the good and the bad. I search in the eyes of the other for my truth. He only sees himself. We are masking each other.

On this road, searching for our differences, the dissociation rips cries from us. From birth we cry to return to the breast of our mothers, a cry from fear of the cold, and of rage which resonates in all languages, for all ages. The cry of helplessness and of anger. Waiting for comfort from a world which vibrates and vacillates. When the echo of my cry reaches me, if I hear it, answering my needs, I take under my wing my own and unique truth, my inner mother, and fly away towards my destiny.

So I will go where my dreams take us, into my memories first to pay homage, then on the search for the shadow which preceded me. I will confide the reality of my dreams, nightmares or promises. To fly on the shoulders of the angel towards necessary voyages.

On this road butting against the question of meaning, I look back, curious about the emptiness which swallows me up. I reassemble the bits and pieces which have made up my life, a patchwork which defined me and of which I am constructed. I draw the map of my path, on which murmur my ghosts. Which silent paths have preceded us? Reconstructing myself piece by piece, I embroider what has been bequeathed to me, what has been transmitted to me and which exceeds me.

Raising my gaze led me to illusion, made me stumble, on my road I ask myself the question of meaning. I look in myself and reunite with my heavenly part.

Going towards the paths of knowledge, putting our feet on those which have preceded us, without believing that they knew better than us, without allowing ourselves to split, to become fragile, joining our souls to those of others, we create the Divine.


Décrocher la lune

Exploring the strangers within ourselves
Séparation histoires
Autoportrait a la lune
Carnet recherche lune
Lunes
2014 - Installation
Lune Argent sur papier blanc 1
détail
Lune blanc sur papier blanc 1
détail
lune noire crayon noir sur papier noir 1
Lune noire stylo noir sur papier noir 1
détail
Passage lune avant attentes
détail
Passage reel
détail
Passage reel
détail
Carnet de recherches
Décrocher la lune (installation)

Exploring the strangers within ourselves

Décrocher la lune  – Diary – Tuesday September 24th, 2:13 The moon isn’t here, she didn’t rise, she watches out behind the earth what will secretly be, she sprouts. I am scared.

September 28th, 16:35. Anger everywhere around me, in the streets, people pointing out, ignoring the others, bumping for the air the space, without looking, through, alone with angry. As the air here, angry, the weather hot and humid, the crowds moving around like in packs, anger of anonymity, anger and my fear not to exist, vanity to wish to be one. My own anger, mirror of the street, the street reflecting me without letting pass. The detour to follow my path, the compromises, the feeling of transparency and inanity of my being, my say, when some, better that I do write it of even better live it. My poor words, my attempts to order my chaos. This black moon hiding me, is probably the one picturing me the best, nonexistent and full of possible, black, sad and in gestation. I try to keep in the limits of the time, unable to be satisfy. Suddenly skipping a line and being visible for an instant.

September 27th 11:22. In this full of future and possible’s, there is also the emptiness of separation, there are the good-bye, the loss, there are the questions on what we would like bur won’t be able to, adjustment because the question was raised. There is the Infinity and the void, the reality and the dream, the possible and the real.

September 28th, 16:35. Anger everywhere around me, in the streets, people pointing out, ignoring the others, bumping for the air the space, without looking, through, alone with angry. As the air here, angry, the weather hot and humid, the crowds moving around like in packs, anger of anonymity, anger and my fear not to exist, vanity to wish to be one. My own anger, mirror of the street, the street reflecting me without letting pass. The detour to follow my path, the compromises, the feeling of transparency and inanity of my being, my say, when some, better that I do write it of even better live it. My poor words, my attempts to order my chaos. This black moon hiding me, is probably the one picturing me the best, nonexistent and full of possible, black, sad and in gestation. I try to keep in the limits of the time, unable to be satisfy. Suddenly skipping a line and being visible for an instant.

To be continued…


The absence in our paces

These paths that precede us.
Séparation histoires
(h)Etre| E-drop shadow | photographs
2017
Pure gauze, 37 detail 4 photographs
2016
Pure gauze, 43 detail 1 photograph
2016
Cellophanes plaster and gauze photograph
2016
Cellophane nests to become
2017
Photogramme Call In Cocoon
2016
Call In Cocoon
2016
Line of flight series
2017
Bird 2 photograph
2015
Passages series
2017
Passages series
2017
Passages series
2017
Balance series
2017
Balance series
2017
Blood and water series
2017

I go to distant horizons, which move away when I approach them, I go to parts of myself that I do not know.

In the surrounding darkness, I seek for a way, a why toward the light. The sounds reaching me make no sens, they gather with my thoughts, weaving nothing. They spring up from all sides, I got lost. It is the familiar leap in the unknown feeling that every morning calls for and every evening soothes. I  begin maps I can’t read, but which presence reassure me. The paper material  on which they are sketched, the shards in my memory, indicate more validly the north that what I try to decipher from the surroundings.
 
Inevitably, with the day I finally discern between my hollows and my bumps. Inevitably with the revealed contours I accept the darkness that comes before the light and also the darkness that straight after swallows it. I move a step at the time, often with joy,  rich in the knowledge accumulated with the years, the wrinkles and the scars. 
 
If I have left, it is for there is no place where to stay, except, with no certitude, the death. If I go over my self, it is for the others too are someplace else. I leave to the night and the dreams the illusion of a better past.
 
So I trace in words and lines, in arcs and concepts, those paths as pebbles comforting my backward’s sights, when the way is ahead and today it is under my feet. I assemble and reassemble what I may have scattered and if sometimes the road seems familiar, it is for it needed to be drawn, deepened, understood.
 
I go toward distant horizons, that move away as I approach. I come toward parts of myself I don’t know. The obstacles are internal, especially when they materialize in the anther’s features. He is me, infinitely, an unknown me, vanishing only when I recognize him.
 
This absence of path is the outrageous freedom to go in the unknown and the void, and to fill it  with oneself, without expectation nor recognition.
Catalogue
The absence in our paces
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