Exhibition from April 6th to May 18th 2013
Tuesday
- Saturday 11:00 - 19:00
L'absence de
titre d'une œuvre, est un titre en soi...
Since a decade, Jean Faucheur this pioneer of group
experiences, felt the need to return to a more personal manner by constraining
himself to a studio work, i.e. paradoxically within and out of the walls. Street
requires a quickness of progress which forbids any right to error but lets
imagination dilate in a more free liberty of the frame. Studio grants a freedom
and the ease to make but keeps in confinement, incites to gain in profoundness
what one looses in surface.
Such a discipline is lived by Jean Faucheur as one more challenge
sent to his need to renew himself while preserving what he loves in street art: the energy in the script and
the direct relationship with the public. Meanwhile he remains faithful to his
lifelong tool: the spray which allows to graze the surface without ever touch
it, limits the power of the motion, lays open to undulations of the course,
such as glimpses of the unexpected, opening on the most unconscious perspectives
of creation. Further advantage, the distance imposed by the use of this
technique adds fuel to the fire of the enticement terms existing between the
creator and his work.
For this perpetual innovator, why, then,
not take advantage of this experience in also catching the image and the sound,
commodities of the modernity? Yet, in his videos such as Jelly Fish, lighting effects modulated ectoplasmic shapes at the
music’s dictation or, such as Images animées, the monotonous motion of
the metro mixed the colours of the trains and of the underground stations at
the tempo of a deafening noise of engine and rails.
In this exhibition, Jean Faucheur goes
further:he uses the kinetic genius of the audiovisual as a tool of the
very making of the work. On these faces
captured as pixels, colour unperceivably comes and adds itself, by small
touches deepening into a kind of travelling before the proposed work. Different
pictures then emerge which, far from scrambling the lineaments of the characters,
slowly unveil their essence behind the indiscreet decency of a frosted glass. The resulting
blur comes to exceed the surprising details in the clinical representation of
photography. In the same idea, bodies get rid of their lascivious nudity or
their unprovided banality, thus steeping in a molecular universe, multicoloured
bubbles which remind us our atomic origin.
Thus goes the artist’s motion which,
without cease, does pioneer work, superposes, changes the perspective, without
himself too much knowing what he is to discover. It suggests that our look
deceives us on what it guesses it sees. Thus is ad infinitum renewed the
bearing of an approach which pulls some more secret from its subject matter as
that the artist lays his colour. Jean Faucheur ends up by overcoming the sometimes reducing realism
of photography in order to let his bomb conquer our imagination. He forces us
to search in his canvas to go beyond what it shows or let feel.
Of Auguste Renoir, he has kept the
static evocation power of the foreground, of his son Jean, the cineaste; he has
remembered the tremendous dynamic of the depth of field of which he offers an
impressionist version.
