Text of Claude MASTRE, writer, storyteller

When she is serious, the movement of the world seems to leave her eyes: the coming and going of others, the gestures, the rumor, the images, the signs, all that follows like a wake the white or black sailboats of life, everything fades. His face is absent: impassive hardness of a mask.

But the eye burns inside; an inverse gaze, thrown like a probe into the secret depths where, in a mad, solar nucleus, a clutch of impulsive forces, flaming emotions, blasphemous dreams and casting spells gather.

Then go back with the swells, with the lava, until the scarifying hand, a universe of stone, water, fire and air, inhabited here and there by monsters who laugh atrocious or debonair, crossed by looks restless, shaking with fleshy embraces, touched, sometimes, with feathery tenderness, delicate emotion. Fantastic and fantastic universe, dark brother of the other, with its black humor and its barbaric rites, its own order, its disorders, its happiness, its horrors and its doubts.

When it grates, what first eat away the copper is its desire to extirpate what haunts, its stubborn rage to survive, slow rise of a conspiracy.

And when it draws, delivered from the boring roughness imposed by metal, it is a very different danger; less abyssal, simply inscribed in the weave of this paper, made by hand, which she chose because there is nothing flatly docile. Rebel paper, sometimes imbued with bright inks, torn or wrinkled like a rag; complicit paper, since it then affects a strange patience, the almost living elasticity of the parchment; but rebellious again and again, because the grain of this skin, its mottling, its coats, its tattoos of chance, this shivering of the epidermis conceal traps which might well seduce.

Thus, when she draws, in her necessarily precarious balance of complicity and challenge, her pleasure and her vigilance confront each other. playful confrontation, where the fantasy and sensuality of his imagination are sharpened, and his passionate curiosity for the beauty of life, for the female enigma that is perhaps life.

Then, on this gruff and tender paper, can plow the conspiracy of colors and light, which annoys death: prodigious women of women whose belly has matured fabulous bestiaries; animal metamorphoses; organic chimeras that smuggle the frontier of the real and then, in the vagrant wandering of his gesture, in the aerial slide of pencils, bunches of breasts, piled up in landscapes of mother earth, up to the garlands of a Milky Way disheveled ...

When she draws, maybe a witch party lights up with a sowing of "caprices" ... But above all, life is exalted, the unusual and joyous scandal of life. In this time of slow death, the recumbent ones are surprised.