"A branch tells her own story"
By Jean-Pierre Van Tieghem : This sentence uttered by Clemence van Lunen ago shortly articulates and means gives the sense of an elsewhere, of an intimacy and fragility of "Dasein" no safety net of being in the world before the story of the artist and then for. Where then is the difference between the body and sculpture, between the fact and received? Is the joints and destinies with or without movement?
The skeleton appears, between life and absence, between dog and wolf who does not think in colors, anthropomorphic shadows. Memories arise, a game is played, a game which worries in the body of the wood in his heart undressed by nécessité.L bone - the wood - dialogue with its cartilage, its fragility and its transmission belt, this proposed dialogue as it is, almost blinded. But complicity. Yet without respite, because the wood is its timber. S'érectile it passes, lies down and gives himself, distracted its sensual stretching on a lawn, caress obvious vegetations, evacuates the superfluous.
The viewer does not forget that the day he was at the cobbler who has his shoes resoled with a few nails and pieces of leather on his soles. And look what he has never seen: a wire, a nail in the sculptures of Clement van Lunen, then there is nothing like that.
Appears joining wood to wood, such as to culture and vice-versa, "crossroads" as Bachelard said. And it is also a path that goes in one direction. What sense? And wood speaks in its nodes and its holes in its intimacy, in its absence and in its desire for membership.
Everything is ready. The break is. Nothing will hold joint top and bottoms. The forest is hot and dreadful night for men. Everything here is abandoned. Who sits on the wood the wood that speaks for itself and speaks up, does not leave behind because he has not washed the day before. The forest teems. It is uncomfortable. "The tree carries large train here ..." in the words of Henri Michaux "Ecuador." You have to look up. So the look is oblique, where it's good to see the difference and gasoline. The dream comes later. There was lengthy. It took the bear. And this is the autobiography. How? Through the bones, the river waters and vegetable oils, in a kind of movement in space. By the way, why not, sharing a cultural and personal dreams come from elsewhere. Everybody dance acts that do not stop to make. Clemence bifurcates along the branches. These are things moving, its questions.
She looks at the body, beings (beech), names and places, the trunks and roots. She listens to obscure the liturgies. Her image in the choice of wood has its roots in his commas in its absences.Que become the legs, the knees, these navels stationary in the flesh of the woods? Waiting is long, marked perhaps lilies, with discretion. the artist part. The sculptor, her story. Life is reversed. One dies in his place: the place of the tree and its roots. The slope is fast. Like a storm that mark, that hurts. Just take a look at itself on its body. And reflect.
0 comments:
Post a Comment