Homme Qui est-on quand on nait Ligne de vie 1 (l'Homme)lorem ipusmLigne de vie 1 - détailLigne de vie 1 - détailLigne de vie 1 - Portrait 2 en pâte à modeler (Arbre généalogique d’un Homme) Pourquoi, la vie passe-t-elle sur certaines branches alors que d’autres n’ont que la mélancolie en héritage? L’enfant porte le nom de son père, mais les gènes et l’histoire de ses deux parents. Un nom seulement, une identité simplifiée cachant des centaines de patronymes. Des rajouts, des banches sciées, d’autres ficelées ou bouturées, parfois rafistolées. Comme notre histoire qui nous construit, s’invente, se sait et puis s’oublie. Fait de cassures et de hasards heureux il reste l’Homme construit de toutes ces petites histoires, une unité vivante et mouvante, émouvante.
Adam & Eve The stranger within ourselves Adam et EveAdam et Eve - détailMale ou femelleMale ou femelle - détailMale ou femelle - détailLune argent sur papier blanc 1Installation l'étranger - detail Warning: Division by zero in /home/rodach/websiterodach/wp-content/themes/WPBlank-master/app/ressources.php on line 101 Lune blanc sur papier blanc 1 - detail Cherchant en nous des vérités invisibles, nous oublions que tout nous habite. Nous sommes, l’homme et la femme, la fragilité et la force, nos pères et nos mères. Nous dansons nos vies, à la recherche d’harmonies oubliées.
Masks Within and without Broderie radio main 01 masque recto-4 copieRadio gaze masque 3-2Masque radio crâne 1Masque encre et gaze 4Masque encre et gaze 1Masque encre et gaze 6Masque encre et gaze 8Masque encre et gaze 11Masque autoportrait pâte à modeler et gaze 6Masque autoportrait pâte à modeler et gaze 1 What do we claim to be; looking through the prisms of our desires and our dreams we search for ourselves in the gaze of others. A deformed mirror of our realities, we attempt to reconcile ourselves. We run ahead of what we are, will be or could have been. Changing at the will of the wind and of the instant. Time teaches us to tame ourselves, its signs play at clouding our certitudes but also to decode the disarray of those who see us in their own imagination. What do we hope to be? Choosing is playing the illusion of reality.
Society Who we become Ligne de vie 2 (Famille)Ligne de vie 2 - détailLigne de vie 2 - portrait 1Ligne de vie 2 - portrait 2Ligne de vie 2 - portrait 3 (Genealogical tree of a family) What do we claim to be? In this tree where the past and present mingle, truth and falsehood are both hidden and disclosed. Who are we and who are they? Does the plaster camouflage for appearance or does it repair and solidly link two branches to one another? On occasion, they detach themselves, allowing the bare wood to appear. Certain lines seem as though they did want to, could not, or did not know how to conceal or adorn themselves. Are they more real, more natural, or more ignorant? In any case, they are more visible and allow the moss to colonize them. And the branches of life, red, make this family possible.
Times Women in becoming, becoming a woman Livre organique du temps qui passeLivre organique du temps qui passe page 1-2Puzzle installationPuzzle 1 - femme abandonnantPuzzle 5 - femme s'abandonnantFeminite gaze 8Feminite gaze 4Féminité portrait 8 - feutreFéminité portrait 9 Whether she takes her first steps, whether she dances, prays, waits, goes, gives up or surrenders, she lives. Whether she observes, runs or walks, thinks and plays, at all ages, in all circumstances, at all stage, she begins and ends in motion, cycle of days and cycle of moons, in an endless dance. She is multiple and therefore she is unique.
Exile The places we don't belong to Ligne de vie 3 (Ailleurs)Ligne de vie 3 - détailLigne de vie 3 (Ailleurs) (Genealogical tree of a place) It follows that countries, like individuals, are made up of current and additional influences. Those who are there, those who have been, those who build, and those who take over. Can we return to the places of our history; do they keep a trace of our passage, humble though it may have been? I have long searched for an attic where the fragments of a past happiness would be gathered. I was searching for the location of a possible memory. There, in that land where they read from right to left, the passage of different people has been inscribed. The fractures and the mixtures gave it its colours. In the red branches, beats the heart of all; life is a human event. The nest sets down on the life lines. Memory is possible, life as well.
Cries Towards our inner mothers Cri papier 7Cri papier 1Cri radio 27Cri radio 32 Warning: Division by zero in /home/rodach/websiterodach/wp-content/themes/WPBlank-master/app/ressources.php on line 101 Cri journal 1Le cris - installation 2Les cris - installation Warning: Division by zero in /home/rodach/websiterodach/wp-content/themes/WPBlank-master/app/ressources.php on line 101 Oiseau bronze On the paths of life, putting my gaze on the moments that punctuate them and create them, I held on a breath, the prayer which everywhere leads us, fearful. The prayer turn into a cry for our mothers who abandon us by giving birth. We confuse them with God. We have lost ourselves. In all the languages, in all the faiths. Looking above the heavens for what lies within us. We have lost ourselves. In dissecting what we are made of, we have lost ourselves. But if we are able to patiently reconstruct the doubt and fragility which defines us, putting love back in our hands, resuming with the divine what is within us, we hear our cry. The cry of Man.
Traces Reported stories Main de MarieMain de mamie 2Main de Marie et Claudine 2PrièreMains de femmeMain De leur conception à leur mort, elles témoignent de leur pays, de leur naissance et de leur temps. Liberté ou contrainte sont illusions, elles narrent une vérité qui les dépasse et ne se voit que de loin. Sur des trames en métal, tissées de gaze, ou en papier, elles brodent en arabesques délicates, faites de perles ou de sang leur naissance, leur vie et leur mort. En fines lignes, comme autant de rides sur le parchemin de leur visage, patiemment, résolument elles disent la vie des femmes.
Secrets The stories carried Féminité secret 1 dimancheFéminité secret 2 lundiFéminité secret 3 mardiFéminité secret 4 mercrediFéminité secret 5 jeudiFéminité secret 6 vendrediFéminité secret 8 samedi Those stories, if they don’t know them, they carry them. From generation to generation, they are silently passed on. Toxic missions, secreted from mothers to daughters, they load themselves with unconscious alluviums. Conditionning despite themselves, new generations believing being liberated.
Dreams Hearing oneself Livre de reve 4 - 4eme interpretationLivre de rêve 2 - pages 1 et 2Livre de rêve 2 - pages 9 et 10Livre de rêve 3 - pages 1 et 2Livre de rêve 4 - 1ère interprétation - pages 25 et 26Livre de rêve 1 - pages 5 et 6 My days are lightness, hope and courage. My nights are black, worried and agitated. I live my life with confidence, I know I do not know, and I adapt. I observe and forgive quickly without having seen, I burry it away. My nights, conscientiously, take out all of these little packets to open them and look at them. In the morning I no longer know.Sometimes fragments come back to me without context. I am the ally and the enemy, and finally the soldier in my own battles. The days are gentle and happy, I do not breathe. The nights are in trances, I do not breathe. The light gives me what I ask it for. The darkness does not return me any love. I live my days refusing to cry the night without rest. I go on my gentle and serene paths, caught up to by anger. I am not kind to serene love, I do not know how to give it to myself. My throat tightens, my tears flow inside and get infected, I destroy myself, held back by a memory of impossible gentleness. I would like to have screamed, to have cried I would like to have quenched my pain and my anger. I would like, here, to be stretched out, lost at the edge of finding the path, exhausted by what is no longer, ready for what will be. I would like to love my whole self, cherish also my rage, to let it express itself and to thank it. I am alive.
Memory Return to oneself Ligne de vie 4 - détailLigne de vie 4Portrait de Ligne de vie 4 (Genealogical tree of memory) They are here and they accompany us. If memory is again possible, then we need to give it its place. A majestic centenarian tree that catches the sun in its branches nourishes the birds with its fruits and, with its leaves, transforms the wind into music. Pruned branches forming nothing more than the memory of a tree, dried buds that will never produce fruit or leaves. Representing nothing but the misery of humanity. And all the other branches of other trees, from other places and times, precipitated with them. And then, against all expectations, a bud flowers, finding enough sap to give itself life once again. Hence remaking the tree, in homage, in memory, as a sepulcher, and blessing it. Engraved in its trunk is the prayer of their salute, again and again. Placing a stone as a witness to our passage, our recognition, and honoring life.
Forgiveness Releasing oneself Kaddish 2Kaddish 2 detailSchema 2Foule 5 - détailFoule 2Foule 2 - détailFoule 3 - détail Once they were. The memory of their lifes remains immanent and furtive. Their souls hear the sense and they understand its essence. What they must still accomplish beyond life is forgiveness. To come back to life and be free.
Passages On the road, gathering Passages bois - les mèresPassages bois - les mères - detailScanner crâne 4Scanner livre 1Scanner pied droit 3Scanner bassin 1Scanner bassin 1Passages papier fils rouge - détailPassages papier cires - installation_45B4649-recadreePassage temps 100 ans - éclairéIMG_1712Passages du temps 100 ans - détailPassage temps 100 ans - éclairé - détail Laissant sur le sable espoirs et peurs, je roule et jette sur la grève les coquillages bigarrés de mes rêves puis me retire en moi oubliant les traces de mon passage. Me balançant entre silence et courroux, je divague et oublie. Le temps se suspend. Il m’aspire, je cherche l’air et le perds. Rendue furieuse par le vent et les courants, je me gonfle, m’effraie de ma puissance. A bout de souffle, j’expire, mes tourments-tornades déferlent sur les contrées qui courent et me fuient. Je les noie. Allant et venant, effaçant mes passages, reprenant sans cesse le même tourment nourrissant et érodant, les pierres témoins de mes va et vient, me déversant et me retirant, sereinement et violemment. Je me retiens et me répands oublieuse des cycles passées. Par petite touche ou grande tornades je témoigne, de petites lames en grandes révolutions, j’accompagne la lune.
Freedom Among all possibles, choose Ligne de vie 5 - installationLigne de vie 5 - ombreLigne de vie 5 - detailLigne de vie 5Ligne de vie 5 (Genealogical tree in becoming)And when all is said, when the memory has surfaced and we can tame it, comes the time to continue on our path.But where to go, which path to take? Long shaken by the past, by desires that we believed were our own, deciding to become who we are.Making the wish, the promise to oneself, and admitting what holds us back in the past in order to be able to detach ourselves from it.On the crossed tree, the mystical tree that dances with life, facing ourselves in an enclosed space, a forest of possibilities, tying a ribbon that will dance as well.
Enjoyment Being a woman femme sauvage profil detoure-fondBroderie radio sein 1Broderie radio sein 2Broderie radio sein 3IMG_1689-edit-fondBroderie feuille 7IMG_1691-edit-fondBroderie feuille 5Broderie feuille 4Broderie feuille 2Broderie feuille 1femme sauvage face detoure2-fond Wild and free, the woman liberates herself from her chains, to enjoy life, create and celebrate. A free woman is a dancing Man.
Souls The sacred within ourselves Âme bleu et papier tryptique - détailÂme bleu et papier tryptique - détailTotem - bronze et boisTotem - bronze et bois - détailAnge radio 1Radio encre et gaze 6Âme bleu radio 1 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.
Divine Togetherness Ligne de vie 6 (Vie)Ligne de vie 6 - détailLigne de vie 6 - détailLigne de vie 6 - détail (Genealogical tree of life)Alone at birth and alone at death, alone in the crowd and the only one knowing of himself. Solitude may have seemed to a man as his only companion. Meanwhile, sometimes, he recognizes in others a part of himself, is united by thought with souls that he may not always know. He believes that he has a destiny, and through this, he knows. Finally on his path, man can see himself as a part of the whole.
