Art, in its purest form, isn’t an ornament, nor a representation. It’s not here for pure aesthetic, the result of the beauty through which it exists. It’s not an expression of beautiful, and it’s not its purpose.
Art is wildness, pain, burden. It’s carried in the depths of the soul, lives, feels, hurts you and makes you re-emerge at any time. It is and exists way before the canvas and lasts way after the canvas. It abodes in you, comes along under the shower, when you’re shopping, when you have a drink with your friends, it follows you everywhere, and you sometimes meet it by surprise, around the corner, in your bed at night. It is just here. And that’s all.
Sometimes comes a time to express it. It is the « moment of art ». And when you’re ready – or maybe it is ready – you enter deeper in an inner reality, in a creation process where are tangling your most intimate feels, the most secret struggles between you and you. You don’t choose the « moment of art », you don’t know when it will start, nor when it will end, nor what will happen precisely.
Painting takes me down in a kind of soul darkness, a deaf anger, a form of concentration mixed with wanderings, where nothing round exists nor matters. A loss of landmark, no space, no time, no people, no noise, nothing. Only me. A raw me, undone, facing a virgin support. With nothing to say, and everything to express.
When the « moment of art » ends, everything is already over. There will be none but a result, expressed on a support. You will find it beautiful or ugly, it will reach you, or not. We will give it a title, in order to lessen the emotions of those who fear confrontation with their own perceptions, you will then understand it your way ; and it will maybe dress up walls, somewhere, loaded with all the suggestions ans interpretations belonging to the one that will set eye on it.
Art, in its purest form, isn’t an ornament, nor a representation. It’s not here for pure aesthetic, the result of the beauty through which it exists. It’s not an expression of beautiful, and it’s not its purpose. It’s not the creation process. Not even the result.
Art is a fact, which you will only see the aftermath of a moment of life, a moment of art.