Lead pencil. Story of a point a few inches down the page that stands on the edge. He trembles at the thought of having to cross all that white, to reach the opposite side … he starts and becomes a line. His trace asserts itself and he finally touches the other side.
But as it arrives, the line bounces off the edge of the paper and spins like a star against the top of the paper. This is the big feature. The line runs along the edge of the page, but can not hold on and falls to the bottom of the sheet … Very pissed off and panicked, he zig-zag like crazy and blackened with rage space in which he is locked up, stuck by his first line. Suddenly, he stops and his energy is born a ball that climbs and clings to the big line.
Blurred, fire red faded by the mist, like a sun wedged between two mountains: triangles of Indian ink and water stretching and their summits towards the heavens. They fill themselves with wild grass lying in the east wind. Trace! wind! grass! trace! wind! crazy grass!
The rock has come loose, a cube of blue granite, which settles a little on the circle a little elsewhere. The blue escapes, pulled by the water of the brush, it goes up, goes up … and stops.
A trace of white chalk climbs along the large line of graphite, and is the trace at the top of the leaf. It too does not hold and falls in rain. Rain of traces of chalk covering up a part of the space. The blue ink has covered the rain, tinged with yellow, it covers all the drops with large clouds of ink.
Primary yellow has invaded the top. A triangle filled with multicolored pastel dots landed below the sun. a black line runs through the ball. Three parallel lines sail, and a purple dot landed on the blue sky that has invaded all the remaining whites. Period !
SchoolArts class, Boulle school, ParisMaterialsPastel and acrylic paintYear2016