Painting is just painting, it is finding an equilibrium, a body, a border between the tangible and the spiritual. Le désespoir des singes is the tree that grows in a cavern, a tree of memories but also of the past, it is the fireproof conifer symbol of memory.
To profess taking out your paintbrushes to share an autobiography is complex endeavour, the old me, the present me; this dichotomy is forever the helmsman. All the pictural propositions have been elaborated from memories, they have suffered ruptures, transformations and rips. To each one its own format, they have searched for their individual emancipation whilst always keeping the others at their side. They have fought to be painted, enduring the moods, the trials of time, the laughter and anger of their author. The time has come to take them out, to unveil them to the light and the eyes, the onlooker’s gaze rendering them evermore alive.