THE BEGINING OF MY WATER –COLORS ON SILK PAPER

1980

MANHATTAN

Tulle came out of the water surrounding the island. Unfolding itself, it stretches, rolls and looks, climbs, receives, touches, slides, howls and escapes.

Her, her, Manhattan marks herself only within the echo of a cry of love and  hatred.

One on top of the others, next to each others, suspended, i had dreamed, i had the desire.

A huge spiral-like window or a multitude of cells, of moving atoms, compose it. Stretching from all its sides, blowing up from the center, the paper loses its dimensions. It metamorphoses into the cycle of an accordion within a century.

The forms of the city are enveloped within a cotton like transparency by a weightless curtain of tulle. A curtain for each windows surrounding me, and, no more choice because of the impossibility to fix a gaze on a circular universe which never tires of turning my head around, so strong is my desire to see all the things happening at the same time.

This, arriving in new York, losing myself – among the lines of the chimneys, of its infinite phallic streets: it is between the wide sky and the silhouettes of the buildings that i have composed the space. Sky – uterus crawls in a territory where everything is permissible at the feet of women.

To be looked at and touched, table cloths, napkins, dinners, bars, night clubs and coffee shop, and to go out, and to get lost again amidst light and shadows.

Traces and spots which testify by repeated applications to a city in waiting. Being absorbed, drunk up, being mixed up like the pressure of a bloater on fresh ink ; the liquid penetrates only to fade way then to disappear.

One on top of the other, next to each others, suspended . all those papers , delicate , transparent , spilled on the floor , rolling and turning with the help of a string and clips , in space .

Within the heat of summer, I poured I threw water on the paper and around as well .

Matter has begun to breathe , to move , taking life through its nostrils , drinking with its mouth , at times almost drowning, in places . I stop . Saving it , caressing it to remove the water . And through this liaison , pleat by pleat , love will remain the fatality of our encounter .

The paper has come to life . it has become an animal , it dries its tanned skin which filters lights – untamed.

A smooth pair of scissors , another with teeth , draw a pattern ; hands tear and make holes to introduce time’s wear and old age . A whole group , an accumulation of paper , glue , water  , inks , strokes , cuts , lines , colours , to surge into the magic of the revealing canal .

     The transparency of too worked a skin.