INFUSION CAMOMILLE – 2017/2018 – Combs, children shoes, massage stick, metal rod, carpet, tulle, steering wheel protection, plastic supermarket box grid, plexiglass, colored pencil on paper, 94 x 46 x 8
AFTERNOON CLOUDS, 2017/2018 – Broken smartphone screens, bike chains, ropes, tulle, metal thread, colored pencil on paper, plexiglass, plastic supermarket box grid – 64 x 50 x 1 cm
INFUSION SAUGE, 2017/2018- Kitchen tool, bike chains, car carpet, ropes, metal rods, belt parts, tulle, steering wheel protection, plastic supermarket box grid, plexiglass, colored pencil on paper, metal thread 86 x 48 x 4,5 cm
BLACK TEA WITH MILK, 2017/2018 – Shoe parts, hair clips, stickers, metal rod, tulle, steering wheel protection, plastic supermarket box grid, plexiglass, colored pencil on paper, garlic press, broken smart phone screen, ropes, metal thread 92 x 47 x 6 cm
THE SALAD, 2017/2018 -Tie, Glass, Rope, colored pencil on paper, metal thread, wood, plastic supermarket box grid – 63 x 50,5 x 4 cm
BLOC-NOTES, 2017/2018 – Plastic parts, hair clips, car carpet, metal parts, ropes, broken smart phone screens, bike chains, plastic parts, carpet, plastic supermarket box grid, tie, belt, tulle, combs, metal rods, cloth, metal thread – 75 x 64 x 4 cm
Upstair – Installation global view
THE CLOCK, 2017/2018 – Metal Stand, tulle, mirror, metal rods, combs, keyboard parts, ropes, remote buttons, broken smartphone screens, broken iPad screens, chess pieces, metal thread, metal parts, thread 89 x 186,5 x 25 cm
NIGHT CLOUDS, 2017/2018 -Colored pencil on paper, tulle, bike chains, broken smart phone screens, plastic supermarket box grid, metal thread, plexiglass, ropes, keyboard parts, magnets – 60 x 47 x 1,5 cm
CUP WITH STAINS, 2017/2018 – Broken smart phone screens, shoe parts, razor, massage stick, plastic, ropes, metal thread, tulle, bike chains, metal parts – Installation, Dimensions variable – Elements: Cup: 28 x 36 x 45 cm; Birds, 36 x 35 x 3 cm; 37,5 x 37,5 x 3 cm; 36 x 24 x 4,5 cm; 70 x 45 x 4,5
La Convalescence
The exhibition is on view till March 3rd, 2018
New galerie, Paris
(Version française ci-dessous)
The child is bedridden, strapped down from one end to the other with hawthorn ties. His bones are so fragile and his hands so diaphanous that one fears an unknown disease. Jammed into his sheets, he struggles to see the chickadees burrowing into the snow. The window made of PVC, then the clouds and sky merge into a mirage. His sight clouded over by the steam from a cup, the world seems unattainable. In the distance, horns set the cadence of the exits off the freeways where the blacktop is cracked, brutally embraced by jackhammers. The broken tea cup on the tiled floor responds to the jolt of the stroke of the clock. How the minutes seem long and the horizon seems vague!
Drop after drop, time is stretched thin.
On a ceiling with the asbestos removed, the child with glass bones thinks he sees Lidwina of Schiedam, a Catholic mystic and the patron saint of ice skaters. Isn’t she the one who, pierced by the bars of a metal gate, could not be cauterized? Her raging wounds could hardly tolerate being patched up. At mealtime, on a cellulose tray lie some vapors and tablets. Desomorphine? Gamma-Butyrolactone? A powerful derivative of benzocaine? The shot is painless. The liquid exhales a smell of rancid butter. In his sleep, he begins to dream.
Cobalt chips, marbled aluminum screens, orange peels and a thousand straws are his stored-up treasure. Its debris comes alive like a swarm of birds making silhouettes, sometimes muddled and sometimes cheerful. He dreamed of dancing in their impetuous and playful heart, alternating splits and arabesques, taunting Winter with his side steps. Freed from his terrestrial bonds, he would become a prince, the master in his ragpickers kingdom. Sailing without instruments, heading for the California state line, after Santa Barbara, following the footsteps of the one who never wanted to grow up.
Awake, a screen in the crook of his neck emitting a stifled frequency, his heart beating slowly, only an electronic halo pierces the darkness. The window is covered with thick felt which is unraveling into shreds, sordid rags which are penetrated by moisture.
Diogenes of Sinope, illuminated crackhead abandoned to moral corruption, that’s what he looked like. A victim that would be protected from chemtrails, these vapor trails of sulfur left by Boeings braving the sky. Caught in the two-wheeled vice mounted on top of pikes, the cruel ones imagined by the Marquis of Alpilles, it was no more than a kind of celestial gallows. The same sensation was felt during his transatlantic flights, at the opportune time when numbness resulted from the combined blast of burning heat and icy air sliding across the surface of the porthole: an absolute state of suspension, where the body surrenders to the destiny of the airplane.
Near Death Experience or an apparition of the Virgin Mary, he could not tell with his eyes full of frost if the sky was again cloaking itself. His sight clouded over by the steam from a cup, the world henceforth seemed accessible. If virtually nothing alive could be saved, he would once more find the light of spring, which clearing its path, would strike the few survivors with its gift of gab.
Pierre-Alexandre Mateos and Charles Teyssou
L’enfant est alité, sanglé de part en part par des liens d’aubépines. Ses os sont si fragiles et ses mains si diaphanes qu’on redoute une maladie inconnue. Bloqué dans ses draps, il peine à apercevoir les mésanges s’enfonçant dans la neige. La fenêtre en PVC, puis les nuages et le ciel se confondent en mirage. Le regard embué par la vapeur d’une tasse, le monde semble inaccessible. Au loin, les klaxons cadencent les sorties d’autoroutes là où le goudron se fissure, brutalement étreint par des marteaux-piqueurs. Le bris du thé sur le sol en carrelage répond au sursaut du coup de l’horloge. Que les minutes semblent longues et l’horizon vague.
Goutte après goutte, le temps est distendu.
Sur un plafond désamianté, l’enfant aux os de verre croit voir Lydwine de Schiedam, mystique catholique et Sainte des patineurs sur glace. N’est-elle pas celle qui, transpercée par les grilles, n’avait pas su cautériser ? Ses plaies ardentes ne supportaient guère les rafistolages. A l’heure du repas, sur un plateau de cellulose gisent quelques vapeurs et comprimés. Désomorphine ? Gamma- Butyrolactone ? Un dérivé puissant de benzocaïne ? La piqure est indolore. Le liquide exhale une odeur de beurre rance. Dans son sommeil, il se met à rêver.
Eclats de cobalt, écrans d’aluminium marbrés, pelures d’oranges et mille pailles sont son trésor amassé. Ses débris s’animent comme un essaim d’oiseaux, formant des silhouettes tantôt troubles tantôt allègres. Il rêvait de danser en leur cœur, impétueux et enjoué, alternant les écarts et les arabesques, narguant l’Hiver par ses pas de côté. Délesté d’attributs trop terrestres, il deviendrait prince, maître en son royaume des chiffonniers. Naviguant à vue, direction les confins de la Californie, après Santa Barbara, sur les traces de celui qui n’a jamais voulu grandir.
Réveillé, un écran au creux du cou émettant une fréquence étouffée, le battement du cœur lent, seul un halo électronique perce l’obscurité. La fenêtre est recouverte d’un épais feutre qui s’effiloche en lambeaux, sordides guenilles dans lesquelles s’infiltre l’humidité.
Diogène de Sinope, crackhead illuminé abandonné aux sentines, voilà à quoi il ressemblait. Une victime que l’on protégerait des chemtrails, ces trainées de soufre laissés par les boeings bravant le ciel. Pris dans l’étau de deux roues surmontées de piques, celles cruelles imaginées par le Marquis des Alpilles, il n’était plus qu’une sorte de gibet céleste. La même sensation fut éprouvée lors de ses vols transatlantiques, au moment de l’engourdissement rendu propice par le souffle conjoint du chauffage brûlant et de l’air glacé glissant à la surface du hublot : un état de suspension absolu, où le corps s’abandonne au destin de l’appareil.
Near Death Experience ou apparition mariale, il ne sut de ses yeux pleins de givre si le ciel se voilait à nouveau. Le regard embué par la vapeur d’une tasse, le monde semblait désormais accessible. Si presque rien de vivant ne pouvait être sauvé, il retrouvait la lumière du printemps qui, se frayant un passage, frappait de sa faconde les quelques survivants.
Pierre-Alexandre Mateos et Charles Teyssou
Thank to Josephine Van Schendel for her precious help and support.