Somewhere in the North, a confined town that awakens at spring.
Tidy, it offers its suave palette: a row of plaster and shutters in pastel tones, sometimes astonishingly audacious like these mauves and pinks, or the aquatic green in vogue in bathrooms and swimming pools.
Each facade serves as a foil to its neighbor and the open shutters are so many calls to curiosity.
Windows closed, hush, it's too early. Bouquets of heather, I cover myself in and strain my ears.
Like a motionless caravel on the edge of the estuary, the town protects its secrets and pierces low clouds, drizzle and mist.
Carte blanche told me Anne-Marie, my artist friend.
Anne-Marie feeds on her travels, and if her painting recreates the purple maples of Kyoto, for me it is an ocean, a fire, a dazzling, a throbbing , I am burning to appropriate the colors.
In mirror, upside down, duplicated, augmented, the painting takes on a textile dimension.
Graphics, knife edges cut, purplish blue cabochons fragment.
Azure , the translucent roses, the traces of anise and the matt white provide an evanescent background, a sfumato softening the violence of the reds.
The grain of the canvas and the weave of the fabric blend together.
Thus Anne-Marie's painting continues his life as an artist.