Working notes 2009 (extracts)
I don't like smooth paper. I prefer it when it's thick, gritty: the pencil lead has to feel some resistance, something countering it that will leave its mark. The smooth virginity of some sheets of paper I find repellent. Or maybe their silence stops me from moving forward. Their unspeaking silence doesn't reveal any bone structure, doesn't hide any skeleton. I need to feel the call before I can place pigment on the paper and see what it is hiding. I have to retrieve what it has lost.
Only Drawing allows such direct confrontation between a single material and a single tool, humble as they both are. Using an instrument must be extremely limited humble materials = being light enough to count infinitesimals to infinity.
Balancing on the razor edge of legibility, cutting out superfluity, marking out the borderline with things that are Literal.
Red may not be a colour. What if it were a sound ? A material ? A strident texture ? A taste ? A smell ? Grain by grain, dot by dot, Red becomes a Cockcrow, the hour when the ghosts of the night can die.
This work, however, is not pointless. Difficult? A little. But above all, it is stubborn, abominable and delightful, on the edge of what is inept. No advantage. Long and slow. Elsewhere.
Red cold, icy; piercing. It whistles. Don't you ever get warm ?
Such disgust and so much Time transpiring, pitiless. Red is primitive.The idea of lettting go is more embarrassing than the possibility of going on.
Imbibing a whim, numb and coloured. Crayoning in? Here's the colour in its suitcase : the luggage of existence.
Drawing is being freed from a certain form of Time. It's an activity to retreat into, confining, disengaging. Towards tranquillity and madness: setting out the spatial boundaries and the graphic calendar of one's own desert. Silence. Endlessly digging, as in The Burrow, finally encountering Its resonances. Is there anything else to be done ? Efficacity leads me nowhere; going slow or fast are only evasive, vain concepts ...