installation : gold leaf on wall, bronze frame, text by the writer Frederique Massinon
Did Ask A Lie
I have not been educated at Art. My artistic part lies in my words. My brain is like a huge ballet that features letters and syllables. Make them dance to infinity. My mind is structured, concrete, mathematical. Maybe that's why this boy touches me so much? For his world made of organic matter, animal sensations.
The dancer starts to move, she pulls her body out of the large blue fabric sofa, makes it slide over the slats of the wooden floor. Her gaze sharpens, stops again on the picture, perplexed. She looks like she's going to talk, but she stays silent, hypnotized.
I ask her to translate the title of the piece of work into her mother language.
" I can not. It is not possible to translate these words into Japanese. But if you describe your work to me, if you explain me how all of this came to life, then I will try to tell you what it brings to my mind. "
I start talking. She listens to me, focused. Her face becomes serious. Several times, she nods. I have now finished speaking, we observe ourselves silently in the freshness of this winter afternoon. And suddenly, her body starts moving again, goes to the other room. She returns a few moments later while hopping, sits on the ground with her equipment. And she starts to draw. Big black characters begin to appear on the sheet. I observe the birth of this new work of art, fascinated. Now, it’s my turn to not be able to talk anymore. She looks at me with her mischievous face, pulls me out of my ‘rêverie’.
"It means:" The Ephemeral Art Work. You should burn it now. "
She refers to the sheet of paper. I decide not to listen to her. I just can not solve myself to it. It has to remain a trace of what has just happened and that I find fascinating.
I decide to repeat the experience with another of my works. Her hands start drawing again. New characters appear.
"Fragments of Ideas". She talks to me about an hourglass. These fragments of ideas that would pass from one side to an other. She adds these two words: slip and fall, giving to the movement a certain form of a-temporality, like the one of a feather that falls and comes to rest on the ground. "... The fragments of ideas in the hourglass slip, fall without stopping ...".
And you ? If you had to tell me a lie, which one would you choose?