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Poem to my mother
Autumn has always fascinated me. Perhaps is it in me a distant memory, a first impression, being born in this season? Its perfumes, flamboyant colors, its poetry, even its melancholy are a constant source of inspiration.
That year emerged a new vision, a new dimension. These late roses which, like Don Quixote, stubbornly flourish against all odds, these tomatoes that twist to the first frost move me. A god is hiding there. These vegetal individuals are the image of ourselves, our short time on earth and the outcome, our slow decline, but also an image of rebirth, a renewal of hope: the acorns already germinate, seeds spread across with the wind...
Usually slow worker, this in part due to a complex technique, I choose to depict this in a simple composition, as old as the world, the ellipse in the image of the universe and a neutral background but nuanced for each every subject. I was therefore able to complete this series from September until January, all in a raw, each new detail introducing the following tableau. We see gradually disappear colors until these last peony leaves collected in the snow, curling and mummifying in front of my eyes, ghosts, disturbing and fantastic beasts.
That's when my mother died. We were in February.
I am the seed...