1997. Revue “Bulletin les amis d’Ozenda” N° 59, France.               

                      Fourth Roquevaire Festival of Singular Art in 1996


  Ody Saban’s universe is nothing but overflowing luxury, fantastic love, delirious eroticism, devouring passion, screams, drama, violence, hope, vividness of dreams, entanglement of cultures, rustling of civilisations, scarring of beliefs, the flaming of the Orient in the graying of the Occident. The occasional or ritual obsession is always enveloped in a graphic body of work. We are more than anything attracted by the message they contain, that we discover later. This happens, a little like in the great operas, where the uninitiated let themselves be seduced by the scenery, the orchestra, the chorus, before discovering the work of the composer through the Diva. Ody Saban speaks to us through her creations of the eternal quest of lovers, the fusion of bodies, this impossible balance, this slow cannibalism of the couple. At the

same time she remains haunted by the energy which inhabits us, but also those energies which pass through us sporadically, and she feels all the better for having had her spirit molded by the traditions of the Jewish, Muslim and Christian religion.

         In finding a healing unity, trying to make all these energies live together, what difficult test has she not undergone? We find also in her work many images animated by a strong vitality.

Generally a couple occupies the essential space of the composition, while an interlacing of hearts and organs pushes the lovers impossible adventure even further.

          One could believe that there is in Ody Saban a sexual obsession, perhaps a celebration of the cult of fecundity. But as far as this is concerned she is only returning to the roots of the human condition, to this celebration of vital force which is venerated with as much fervour in the Indies, in the linguam cult, or even in the sacrifice of the bull, common to so many civilisations, especially those  of the mediterranean world. She is only speaking of what we have perverted detoured, what morals and certain uses have totally led astray.

                   The right of an authentic artist is to communicate with his hidden forces what the weight of society has completely hidden, but never destroyed, to extract it, place it in public view and say: here is what is happening. Creative vitality is this taut sex, this copulation, this fecundation, this child, and this is extraordinary, marvellous, this is time stopped, life having neither beginning nor end. Why then do we mask the authentic? Why bring everything down to a sort of dime-store eroticism? This is not the case with Ody Saban. She celebrates authentic love, the fusion of bodies and energies in the vast of a perfumed Orient, drunken, baroque, to fascinating music. While at the same time the fragility of man and woman still hovers, existing only as ministers of a cult which exceeds, and will always exceed, them. For future generations, there will always remain her drawings and paintings, illuminating her long walk among her peers.