Collective exhibitionThe Artists at the Bastille Toi Emoi 2018 Espace Commine Paris France

Toi Émoi 2018


Artists at the Bastille

Thursday 15 to Sunday 18 November 2018
69 artists brought together in 1 exhibition around a questioning of otherness, summarized by its title: “ YOU EMOI ".
“YOU” is the other, different from me, close or distant, whether human, animal, plant or even… robotic.
“EMO”, because the encounter is always questioning, curiosity, upheaval; dreams or nightmares, stories of love, of hatred, rarely of indifference!
At a time when societies are dizzy at closing in on themselves, it is comforting to feel, in front of all these creations, the desire to share jostling in the artists' heads.
The encounter ? questions, upheavals, dreams or nightmares…
Stories of love or hate, never indifference!
It's a series about emotions and the memory of emotions. On the canvas, in the middle of indistinct colored or geometric shapes, images and figures are formed, as if recovered from memory. These are nodes of emotions that emerge from the past, but the image/emotion correspondence is not rationalized. Thus images inspired by Japanese art bring back a joy or a suffering from a past much more distant than my trip to Japan. It's as if I'm learning to name my emotions by recreating figures in which I sense the same emotion, the same joy or the same suffering. Emotion imposes itself on what, all around, remains indistinct, confused. Beams of light that bring manga or animated characters to the fore, visions of city walls transformed by street art, ugliness and beauty, without difference. But it is an interior landscape that I express through these images of an entirely exterior world. I search within myself. Then I look for an alphabet in the images that my eye tirelessly records. Fear, anxiety, poetry. It's all in these figures which stand out and become recognizable.
Change of scenery. My trip to the Orient, to encounter a culture, brought me back to myself. The intangible presence of the dead, the memory, the lanterns. This force of memory which continues to inhabit the place. All this led me to work on my own memory: on the memory inscribed in my body, in my senses. My childhood is there, in these knots of emotions for which I seek an alphabet, a language that can only be foreign. Because it is immodest to indulge without distance. The only guardian who accompanies me and watches over me: the imagination of my childhood which wants to continue to express itself.
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