Off course, I was at the Foire Internationale d'Art Contemporain last week-end at the Grand Palais. The place where you have to be and to be seen if you are a true Parisian. I never decided to go there because there is always someone around who wants me to go there. A boyfriend, generally and in this particular case. I have always hated Museum, crowds, watching what people are watching, especially at the same time. Like taking part in an orgy. I hate quantity. Not my cup of tea.
I also loathed the idea of consuming culture as any other good, until I saw a very interesting exhibition at the Rijks Museum last May : « Art as therapy, » by the philosophers Alain de Botton and John Amstrong, who reenchanted my vision of art. The excellent idea was to revisit masterpieces of Dutch painting bringing at the same time a historical background, and what is more surprising an intimate one : what does this XVIIth century canvas evoke, provoke in oneself now ? For instance the « Jewish Bride » by Rembrandt.
The married man looks at his fiancé with a lot of benevolence, suddenly questioning the lack of tenderness in one's couple. When is the last time you had a tender gesture towards your wife ? Asks de Botton.
I suddenly realized, art is like reading, very autobiographical. I was never a great fan of abstract paintings certainly because they do not tell anything about the past, the future nor about me.
So instead of complaining about the emptiness of the contemporary art, the fact that it is overrated and running the risk of becoming bitter, I decided to select those pieces of art which were translating the best my mood, hoping you might share those sensations with me.
Who Am I : a Shiva of the XXIst century, educating twins, working, cleaning my flat, cooking, trying to remain good looking in a yellow submarine.
Last year I had big trouble with my uterus and though I have no respect for Lucio Fontana, this painter whose celebrity was gained by tearing his canevas, this big red piece made out of red straws, reminds me of this unstoppable bloodbath, which I thought would never stop. U-tear us...
Failure or success ? Good gracious, I am actually at a very important crossroad of my life. That is a scary image for me. I hate choices.
My life is a party of Mikado whenenever I feel I have got the right stick in the good place another one moves and all stick collapse and I have to start all over again.
I like this reinterpretation of an African mask. I never protected myself, never wore masks : If I meet someone good I do not want to miss her or him, but there are not so many good people. I wish I had one mask like this with mirror so that people would not read my mind, busy with looking at their own reflection.
Yes I would love to wake up in front of that golden dispenser. But I never did what was necessary for that. I will add that in my good resolutions for 2015.
That is definitely the ideal man. Imature and easy to manipulate. (- :
"Men prefer bitches", that is the title of a hilarious book by Maureen Dowd, they would be foolish not to make the most of it.
Love is hate, war is a path of roses says Richard Mosse...Love is renouncing to war. When I see my children fighting for stupid things, or when I get angry for silly reasons, I experience war in my soul. It is so easy to hate, I prefer fighting with roses, though they might hurt too.I am puzzled with this scupture by Jan Fabre, the association of two objects : a cork screw and brains equals a tank. It is funny because this specific cork screw was named « the general » after de Gaulle, because it looks like a parody of General de Gaulle.
I prefer another sculpture of Jan Fabre with Pieta and which reminds me of the terrible feeling I had, giving life to some human being bound to die at a certain point.
I am the result of several uncounscious generations of women of my family with heavy secrets and their soul. I always felt a heavy weight on my shoulders, therefore I decided to have a psychoanalysis and lay down, like the character at the bottom. They are still on me, but lighter.
This is the black forest, painted by a Chinese painter, Yan Pei-Ming, where I secretely would love to hide or to get lost.
And there I would meet the big bad woolf. (Loup) Garouste. If you do not speak, French, you cannot catch this joke ; sorry.
My favourite dream is swimming in the sea with big fish. I figure this Magritte painting is an erotic dream and I would love to be this mermaid (I look like her except for the breast when I sleep) making love with this big fish, but how ? I see no zip in her tail, how is she going to make it and I wake up. I wonder if I am the only to wake up when the situation is at last getting interesting ?