Drawn - Thoughts on a discipline

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A. INTRODUCTION For as long as I remember, have found peace in drawing reproducing Mickey Mouse or creating imaginary worlds.

As kids do. I have since applied myself to it as often as I could. Periods with, periods without. The faithful companion I should have taken more care of. The one providing a sense of calmness. Le songe premier.

Not everyone needs nor finds such a space, I am glad I did.

Over the years, have had glimpses of mastery.

I can still precisely remember some of my early sketches, how I felt, where I was. A girl sitting in Florence, a model at a London art school, a dog on a parking lot, a man lying on a Mediterranean beach.

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The urgency of capturing the moment, instinctively finding a way. Observing. Oblivious to time and what happens.

Dedicated presence.

A specific mental space.

Between such moments, many attempts and countless torn pages. The quest, the mistakes, the hesitations, what the mind consciously or unconsciously expects as a result. Only a handful of drawings getting a bit closer to it.

As a discipline, drawing consists of repeating gestures over and over again.

Always a bit better. Boredom and idle moments are good starting points to be in the right frame of mind. The ocean, the wide open space, a few islands, a thought.

Sometimes a continent.

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A drawing captures the essence of the moment laid bare. All lines visible.

It requires lines to be unequivocally singular, to convey the weight of a body, the presence of an object, the ambiguity of a look, the grace of a movement. As if all drawn for the first time.

Mastering such a technique without being straddled by it, leaving sufficient space for spontaneity and an emotion to arise.

None of my sketches really satisfy me, their shortcomings all too perceptible. Too gentle and flat, not bold enough, too bold, always a few lines too many, too little life in them. Not good at drawing hands or multiple characters.

Landscapes not my cup of tea. And so on. Still, flaws are what somehow brings humanity to a drawing.

There is no perfection without those imperfections.

They are intrinsic to an endeavour littered with hastened decisions, shortcuts, hesitations, impulsions. The journey is hardly perfect, nor is its outcome.

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Drawing, in particular, beckons a different take on time. A reduced pace for the inner to express itself, to unfold. I am always surprised to see how, despite quieter periods, things evolve nonetheless. How new lines appear. “The fire rests while changing, the fire changes when it rests.” (Heraclites) Rhythm takes central stage. Drawing, like most artistic disciplines, requires serenity.

Most jewels are found in the in-between, in the interstices. A delicate balance. The external environment should not overwhelm the internal one but give way, allowing for an emotion to emerge. A sense of solitude, repetition, suspension, inner peace, boredom are needed; or conversely, drama, love, exuberance.

When the mind, the eye, the hand and the subject are all but one. As one recovers the full sensation of the lungs. A thrilling urgency erupts, between delicacy and violence, lines bursting out in a continuous flow. “No matter where we go, as it opens, the only thing that matters is movement and, in this movement, lost time does not exist.” (Yannick Haenel).

Everything flows from the vertical time as opposed to the more linear horizontal one. It is more suited to drawing, to suspending the course of time instead of simply consuming it.

More than having accomplished something, having conquered one’s own domain - layer by layer. The conscious decision to focus on present moments. The artistic soul cannot contemplate a life without such intensity. “There is, very close to us, a totally unchartered galaxy, an internal landscape feverishly hoping to live, at last” (A. Casar Ros).

This present moment that lives on to become long ago (G. Snyder)

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Where the line exists Where it vanishes, Where it is hardly perceptible Tension between the outside and the inside (the line uniting rather than seperating) rather than separating Evanescence, contours – between love and abandonment Define, show, omit, suggest, Allow to breath Between relaxation and concentration

My appreciation of more abstract lines came when discovering Agnes Martin and Cy Twombly.

His writing is nervous yet exuding serenity. Cerebral and erudite, his main themes are permeated by mythologies, poetry, the Mediterranean. The intellect only provides the initial framework from which he can then let go. Leaving a lot of open space for the lines to express themselves. What he then does is, first and foremost, physical. Organic quality.

Cerebral. Free. La ligne se suffit à elle-même.

If anyone ever said you had two left hands, or that your sibling was the artistic one, that you better stick to physics or maths, forget about it. It is often senseless.

What separates the wheat from the chaff is the obsession. The dedication. Not innate talent.

A slight handicap may well be what pushes you to try harder. Talent can be a curse.

For every Picasso or Schiele, a billion of us. The need to understand and conquer your own territory is what matters.

Acquiring a language is never straightforward. It usually is a matter of survival, an imperative to make yourself understood. You have to throw yourself at it.

Such a process requires dedication, steps forwards hopefully outnumbering the steps backwards. It is not linear. You will need to get the music right, start gathering words, even imagining some, building short sentences. Meander. The necessary tribulations.

Don’t be afraid to fail and enjoy what it does to the brain.

I do not believe I would have had the courage nor the patience to make it my full time occupation. I find solace in thinking that I will never be satiated. A space of personal freedom. The quest that never ends, the ever present wonder.

I have not followed a structured artistic curriculum, but learnt the craft by intermittence with an irritating lack of self-discipline. Over the years, I received guidance. It usually took me long to realise what it meant. But here I am, clearly older yet still somehow young.

The kind of youth sticking endlessly to the amateur. This extended process of decantation has now borne fruits I share here.

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B. LESSONS LEARNED When drawing, three dimensions are essential: depth, light and presence.

Landscapes and Pollock’s paintings, for instance, inform us on depth albeit in somewhat opposing ways. As the eye gazes at a landscape, depth comes from bringing darker shades to the fore, whilst lighter ones fade in the distance.

While layering paint, Pollock uses a similar layered approach to ‘build up’ his picture, but in an opposite way. Pollock first applies grey painting, adding the black and yellow / white highlights subsequently. What seems messy, from a distance, is actually quite considered upon closer inspection. Light is brought forward to give a sense of depth.

As one does when drawing a face, with lighter touches tending to be reserved for the nose, forehead, mouth and chin.

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To give a sense of verticality and weight, one plays with light using thinner or thicker line(s).

In Ingres’ sketch, the arm stretches towards the light with a hardly perceptible upper line, while the subject’s back, laying on the ground, is marked by thicker / darker lines. On the mountain picture, we see some very blurred delineations between mountain cusp, cloud and sky. In drawing, boundaries between a face and its surroundings are not always clear cut.

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There is not much in Cezanne’s sketches distinguishing a face from a flower, a flower from a face. Somehow the drawn object feels as if it is a flower, a mountain or even a rock. It is very important to create a physicality, a palpable organic presence to capture hope, despair, desire, anger, curiosity, astonishment, contemplation, exhaustion, surprise.

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The craft resides in giving the viewer a sense of volume by layering (depth) while weight, and elevation, come from adjusting the light (lightness); orchestrating such vertical and horizontal tensions is the skill, while being at the service of the subject and its drama. Its presence. Its physical manifestation.

Drawing is a solitary activity. It is restricted to paper which is only a one-dimensional plane. Paper. Humbler in scope, it bears many similarities with disciplines such as music, ballet or Tai Chi. When Bach wrote the Matthaeus Passion, he built a complex and layered partition telling a story of pain, crucifixion, ascension and resurrection. Where life and death collide, allowing for some moments of elation to ascent. A note rising to reach a point of levitation, of purity. Where time seems suspended. The feeling almost extinct. Upheld a second in heaven, nearly engulfed by silence.

In Stravinsky’s Rite of spring, the season of birth, usually welcomed with little leaves and singing birds, is depicted as painful; its outcome far from certain. The season struggles hindered by the lingering winter. Heavy layers of music are weighing on nature’s fragile attempts. A wonder that spring eventually crops up, against the odds it seems.

Pergolesi Stabat Mater’s first movement starts with two performers singing separate lines slowly coming together. The space bridged by a very tangible vibration. Their voices suddenly working in unison reducing the space between them to the tinniest of streams.

Two lines nearly united. Tangents, distinct and yet one.

Anne Teresa de Keersmaeker often deploys her dancers on a horizontal plane following the Fibonacci magic sequence or the magic square (‘nine star ki’):

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Tree Wind

Fire

Earth Earth

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Tree Thunder

Earth

Metal Lake

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Earth Mountain

Water

Metal Heaven

NB: all rows, columns, diagonals add up to 15.

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I cannot tell you much about these grids but they somehow resonate with the practice of drawing. How the elements interact, how harmony is sought, how they dictate the energy field. Opposites with no choice other than coexisting. Orchestrating all movements wherein the dancers jump, run, fall, roll, collide, embrace, kneel.

Their centre of gravity constantly challenged.

Their heads, shoulders, legs and knees either lifting them or giving way.

Standing or succumbing.

In the little Tai Chi I did, or understand, similar dynamics are at play. The vertical axis, connecting our feet to our head, is grounding the body. The head pulled upwards via an invisible thread. This axis is complemented by a set of circular shapes formed by our arms and legs. Such horizontal or vertical circles, combined with the way we stand and the position of our head, allow to withstand forces aimed at our body.

To remain on our feet, gently using our posture to develop strength and resilience.

The intelligence of the body. The sequence of movement so precisely guiding our breathing and actions, with little space for the brain to get distracted or ruminate.

Similarly, for any type of picture, there is a grid defining the perfect composition.

Have used it retroactively to understand why and how a picture actually works.

A way to substantiate an intuition, to second-guess harmony.

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Being ‘in it’ is not merely a thought, an intellectual state or a physical action.

It is a mental space. A field on which we stand. A geography deploying itself vertically and horizontally, engaging all senses. A full circle between our eyes, our breathing, the arm, the paper and the subject.

A lot of what I was told was not immediately obvious to me but became clearer through trial and error. Being confronted to the task, trying to find solutions, putting in the hours. Making little steps is the only way to progress. Learning comes from this direct confrontation. The hours required to master this discipline are incompressible.

Try, fail, try again.

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1.

ENDLESSLY OBSERVING More often than not, we presume knowing what we are looking at. Our brains decipher and label what we see. Such shortcuts are harmful. A nose can be just two holes, a mountain or a horizontal line and a shadow combined.

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TRUST YOUR EYES Following from the above, it is important to trust what you see, keeping the intellect out of it. Your eyes should guide both your breathing and hand. Observing as long as it takes to see. Judgement is for later, if at all.

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BALANCE BETWEEN CONCENTRATION AND RELAXATION Drawing requires you to be ‘there’, in a state of heightened concentration.

Repeating similar movements over and over again. Undisturbed, yet reaching a state of physical relaxation. The random thoughts that may be drifting across your brain must settle as sediments in a pond. Your attention ought to be crystal clear. Holding the pencil by its extremity can help, sitting with a straight back on a wooden stool is also advisable.

Breathing too.

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4.

THE JOURNEY MATTERS The initial layout may hint at the end result but is only the start of a journey.

Do not think too much about the outcome. I often start a drawing without knowing where it will take me. Half empty, it can be frustrating (random); half full, it is the crux of it (open). Take it one step at a time. When climbing a mountain, it is better to focus on the immediate next steps rather than the peak, regularly taking a step back to gauge the overall direction.

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FRAME Good drawings will leave the initial frame apparent however imperceptible it may have been, testifying of the original intention. Some vital lines, I call correspondences, provide the overall movement and link crucial points. Both frame and correspondences will set out the initial dialogue and provide loose indications for the proportions.

A sense of a picture’s nascent physicality. Using an H pencil initially can be useful unless you make use of bolder lines straight away.

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SEARCH Several attempts are often required. Never stop interrogating the subject, adapting the initial frame, looking for the right line(s), leaving your hesitations apparent. The bare truth of the moment gives the drawing its ‘humanity’, its vibrancy. In my first years at university, I bought two books of a poet, then unknown to me, drawn solely to their titles. Le Nu perdu and Fureur et Mystère.

Somehow their titles capture what this is about.

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PROGRESSIVELY LAYER Unless you start with bold lines, be gentle and build up thickness slowly, patiently adding darker lines to lighter ones using different vocabularies between. Remember to be very focused when putting the final touches using a dark 3B pencil for instance.

As my old neighbour used to say, take your time baby but take a good time. And it sometimes takes time, unless you go for it aggressively without much preamble as Rodin was accustomed to. In all cases, beware of ‘photographic’ solutions merely replicating the appearance, only getting the contours right.

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SOME LINES ARE VISIBLE, OTHERS AREN’T The end of a line is not the end of its intention. The absence of a line does not equate to the absence of a delineation.

The distinction between the in and the out is often invisible.

What separates something from its surroundings can be just a slight change in colour, the lightest of shades.

Harsh boundaries are surprisingly less common than one thinks (see leg on opposite page).

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KNOW WHEN TO STOP This is highly subjective. There will be a point when a drawing is ready, when it feels present. If in doubt, turn it 90 degrees. By doing away with its familiarity, you will be able to judge it as an object. By not recognising what it represents, there is a chance you will sense its physical quality. Is it finished? Does it require some additions? Does it lay well on the paper? Can you feel its presence and weight? Are the tensions in your stomach gone? Are the voices giving you some respite?

Leaving it until the next morning may also help.

In the end, you need to find balance. It will come from the tiniest and most innocuous details (such as the lips on the left).

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CHERISH THE LINE Every line matters. Each one of them has an intrinsic beauty. Where it starts, where it ends.

It has this amazing faculty to inform simply by the way it is laid on the paper. Curve, angle, thickness, length; at times hesitating, strong, imperceptible, or swirling. Beyond skills, they require little strokes of luck.

It is worth looking carefully the lines of Ingres, Degas, Cézanne or Twombly.

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BEWARE OF SYSTEMATISM Avoid relying on a systematic approach, on mechanical movements, repetitive tricks, overpowering contours. Every line should breathe.

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PUT IN THE HOURS There is no inspiration, there are only inspired moments. Accumulating such moments is more important than innate talent. It is about repeating the same steps over and over again. And when picking it up again, the eventuality it does not work. The importance of not being unsettled, of remaining saddled. By a setback, avoid getting frustrated.

Patience will help untangle the knots allowing the line to eventually burst. De jaillir.

It matters also to venture into the unknown. Such side steps can sometimes feel useless: dead ends or steps backwards. Only time will reveal their impact, how these forays will have nurtured you. As TS Eliot puts it, only through time time is conquered.

Writing works in the same way. The initial chapters may feel a bit controlled or contrived.

Once warmed up, the flow seems freer. Astonishing to re-read oneself the next day.

By letting go, we found thoughts and territories we hardly knew existed.

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COPY THE MASTERS I should have copied the masters more often. Still the little I did helped me. Copying others is instructive as it makes some ‘solutions’ obvious. The translation from life to paper having already taken place, the ‘3D gone 2D gone 3D’ steps already done (or its illusion).

As one goes back to sketching from life, left to one’s devices, it is normal to feel a bit lost and naked. Suddenly getting the ‘3D > 2D > 3D’ right is hard. It is part of the learning process and will accelerate the emergence of your own voice.

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HAVE FAITH Drawing, as most disciplines, captures the essence of life. Life condensed. You will have glimpses of mastery (what is already there, waiting to come out), the highly frustrating and yet rewarding learning process. A sense of fulfilment, from the old english word fullfyllan (full & fyllan or “to fill”).

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15.

TWO-WAY PROCESS Learning a craft combines self-expression with the mastery of a technique. It is a constant two-way dialogue. Moving towards a greater expertise, growing closer to one’s ideal while remaining faithful to what is already there: the purity of the first dream. Le songe premier.

The essence. Our innocence slowly learns to cohabit with expertise. Once a technique is mastered, we may be free again. Free to conquer a territory with one’s tools and the humility of the craftsmen.

C. MY PANTHEON Along the way, I have watched the works of countless artists with a predilection for their drawings. Trying to understand how they reach a specific result. With a little bit of luck, a drawing can claim its place to posterity. The purity of the moment that lasts, the unwavering miracle.

The artist’s style and vocabularies provide a first impression transcending time, geographies and hierarchies. The eye limits the fields of exploration, trying to discern a feeling, a drama, a frailty, a fever, a vibration.

Some details confer weight, a centre of gravity, an anchor point, a physical existence.

Them being thicker lines, shadows, increased densities, converging lines, a specific inclination, a layout. A variety of vocabularies.

The originality of the treatment: how the artist finds his way, how he solves a problem.

Pay attention to the nose, the hands, the jaw in extension, the hair, the eyes, the expression, the embrace, the depth. A foot on the ground. Assiduously watching the lines, trying to understand them. See how they suggest, cross one another, point and signify.

Appreciate the imagination of the artist, his faculty to let go. The quest for the ever vanishing sign, the tension between disquiet and excitement. Ideal and reality.

A drawing can, in fine, boil down to a single line.

Every artist adopts different approaches according to his preference, capability, focus, needs (sketch or finished work) or theme. Individual styles tend however to gravitate towards one style:

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1.

2.

3.

4.

3. Structure

4. Research

1. Precision

2. Movement

Precision – representing reality Movement – capturing the movement, its essence Structure – Identifying the interactions between the object and its environment Research – scrutinising / querying the object (abstraction)

For the ones unable to read my handwriting:

Uglow, Seurat

Auerbach Giacometti

Tiepolo Spilliaert, Munch, Rembrandt

Barney

Rodin, Cézanne Schiele, Picasso

Klimt, Piene

Degas Michelangelo, Ingres, Van Dijk

Most drawings shown here are figurative. It is important to emphasise that whether drawing eggs, bears, dogs, mugs or abstract shapes, lines are lines. And lines.

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MICHELANGELO (1475-1564)

JEAN AUGUST DOMINIQUE INGRES (1780-1867)

Delicacy and refinement. Hard to comprehend how such perfection reached us, across the centuries intact and pure. Notice, on the second drawing, the shadows underneath the hat, under the chin.

The artist I constantly come back to.

I am truly impressed by his faculty to subtly suggest shapes, presence and weight by the varying thickness of his contouring lines.

Very precise. Open, closed. Unbearable lightness of being. See the man’s stare and presence. The arm on the second drawing, the way the model’s body rests on the couch.

ANTON VAN DIJK (1599-1641)

EDGAR DEGAS (1834-1917)

Van Dijk obsessively captures his sitters’ personalities. Resolute technique at the service of shyness, intelligence, stupidity, arrogance, naivety, confidence, despondency, vacuity, generosity, wisdom. Look at the eyes, the weight of the sitters’ body.

Albeit classic, his style is very sensuous.

The lines follow and reveal the body.

Observe the refinement of his faces (e.g. frailty of the skin, softness of the lips).

There are few artists that can lay drawings on paper so harmoniously. The way he increases the frequency of lines to create the anchor point with the ground. How he merely suggests a skirt or bed sheets.

The delicacy of the chin, the emotion unencumbered beyond what is needed.

Parsimonious lines.

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EUGENE DELACROIX (1798 - 1863)

EDUARD MUNCH (1863-1944)

Decisive craftsmen. Very precise, swirling, bold lines. The above drawing is a portrait of Delacroix by Degas.

An inclination for his more academic drawings, beyond the anguished expressionism he is known for. Chin, nose, eyes confidently drawn. The underlying shadows defining nose and neck, the strong contrast between face and hair. The use of small patches of parallel lines to create volume. Capturing anguish, sickness, melancholy. The quiet drama.

LÉON SPILLIAERT (1881-1946)

REMBRANDT HARMENSZOON VAN RIJN (1606-1669)

Interesting quote from Jean Clair at Léon Spilliaert’s address: “Extent to which Spilliaert’s spiritual land is delineated by France for providing his formal preciousness, Scandinavia the existential vertigo, Italy the mathematical space; and Austria, finally, for the anguish present in the everyday” (Jean Clair, Autoportrait au visage absent).

See how the face emerges from the darkness.

A great craftsmen capable of capturing striking expressions. A very reliable line: quick, secure, precise, avid. Precision giving way for more expressive drawings - wherein a few brush strokes capture the essence.

In all, a lesson in presence.

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GIOVANNI BATTISTA TIEPOLO (1696-1770)

GUSTAV KLIMT (1862-1918)

Slowly moving away from the prevalence of lines, the contrasts emerge stronger.

His shadows carry the subjects as if the outside was shaping the inside. Tiepolo juggles between the delicacy of his lines and the boldness of his shadows.

Watch carefully how the line flows. Relentless quest for the perfect uninterrupted line.

No shadows, at best intertwining lines to suggest density (fabrics for instance).

Notice the balance between well-defined faces and a few decisive lines orchestrating other bodily parts. I sometimes find his lines a bit too prescriptive, often accentuating the delineation of the body and flattening the drawing.

CHLOÉ PIENE (1972- )

EGON SCHIELE (1890-1918)

Her creative freedom is astonishing.

Precise and definite (e.g. the head, the arms, the legs) allowing for divagations elsewhere.

Free and swirling, yet controlled. Permitting the empty to exist and the movement to be part of the drawing’s experience.

A very airy and sensual experience.

Schiele fascinates with his angular lines, uncanny spirals highlighting hair and eyebrows, the coloured patches bringing his drawings to life. His obsession to reveal tortured bodies. An accomplished personal vocabulary. Wonderful adequation between his style and the intended drama.

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PABLO PICASSO (1881-1973)

AUGUSTE RODIN (1840-1917)

In permanent mutation, his style has largely defined the 20th century, from his pink and blue periods to abstraction. An unrelenting appetite impossible to sum up in a single drawing. Mixed bag though. Many loved women gulped by his fervent lines.

His impatience is perceptible. Straight to the point, he does not worry about details.

Drawing must have been for him an outlet, in contrast with the more demanding requirements of sculpture. He often draws without looking at the paper or even lifting his pencil. His way to add paint to his drawing to reinforce its immediacy.

Often overlaying dissonant dimensions.

PAUL CÉZANNE (1839-1906)

EUAN UGLOW (1932-2000)

Cézanne has a very “organic” style.

Whether faces, fruits, or landscapes; his drawings seem sculpted, carved out of nature. Small patches of overlaid lines are disputing it with a few curves establishing subtle correspondences and accentuating the drawing’s “presence”.

Curves primarily elsewhere.

More clinical, Uglow creates grids and marks, within, and outside of, which his subjects exist: internal and external correspondences.

In some cases, the subject will harmoniously fit within the defined limits, in others he will appear constricted.

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GEORGE PIERRE SEURAT (1859-1891)

ALBERTO GIACOMETTI (1901-1966)

Seurat allows light / whiteness to emanate from the dark. Subtle work on shadows.

Omnipresence of the paper’s grain.

Systematic, Giacometti assesses and reassesses bodies and faces. Scrutinising.

Placing the subject in its environment, the outside shaping the inside and vice versa. Faces slowly emerge through the repetition of concentric lines. His lines can flirt with abstraction in their simplicity.

MATTHEW BARNEY (1967- )

FRANK AUERBACH (1931- )

The inclusion in extremis of Barney comes from a single series of drawings, the ones executed on board a boat crossing the Atlantic. Imposing himself deliberately strenuous working conditions, he draws nonstop as the boat nears or leaves the shores - bringing to life the object at varying distances thereby reproducing movement.

Auerbach scrutinises his models. Never ending work of excavation layer by layer.

Erasing to start over again, his successive attempts very much apparent, intertwined and deep. There is only colour to distinguish his drawings from his paintings.

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D. POST SCRIPTUM There were many continents. Oceans and currents.

Over the years, I learned to navigate, build bridges, translate. Learn how each continent contained the multitude; a richness that focus would reward eventually.

Back then, I felt however that all continents were mutually exclusive. Believed I had to choose, commit to one continent; a sense of betrayal arising otherwise. At the mercy of treacherous oceans, often stuck, falling between the cracks. I knew the spectrum was to be embraced but struggled to do so.

Adrift, astray, vulnerable, bemused, guilty, in disarray. My heart would often feel open.

So many apparent contradictions. Maths and poetry. Team work and introspection.

Art and business. Outside and inside. The wrenching splits. Allegiances. Grands écarts.

Such a feeling was compounded by a lack of context. The extensive moving during my childhood and multiple languages should have equipped me, but perhaps only exacerbated things. Where does it start? Where does it end? I was moving forwards while I felt I was stagnating. Desperate for a meaning of a greater order. This existential maelstrom reached its peak in my late teens and early twenties. As Artaud puts it, une perte constante du niveau de réalité.

In such context, decisions were either agonisingly painful or non-existent. ‘Whatever’ then too often part of my vocabulary. The paternal expectations did not make matters easier.

Even if I realise it was an excuse, this cumbersome shadow was present daily. Seemingly complying, reluctantly so. I had a foot in, one out. Open and evasive. Elegantly tiptoeing before reaching firmer ground and making any kind of choice.

Unsettling lack of anchor. Unable to hold onto a specific goal before another current would carry the day. All options deemed acceptable; always there at my fingertips or so I believed.

Going through deserts was tolerable too, regardless of how barren or unhospitable they were. Strange elegance when on less fertile terrains. Wicked patience to think I could handle such periods. The arrogance to believe it could at any time change. Somehow.

Despite the inner angst, I ploughed on. Friends, situations, work experiences, progression, parties, trips, experiences, cities, work, love. A rich life too often at the mercy of the demons, the clowns, the sediments, the troubled waters. I hurt many, left without reason.

Walked. Was often blind. Shot myself in the foot many times.

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Hanging on to the little voice inside, le songe premier, to something that felt real.

To the loved women, music, drawing, literature. Antonioni, Tarkovsky, Cassavetes, Cortazar, Char, Giacometti, Bach, aka Moon, Jarmush, Wenders, Beckett, Gracq, yes Gracq, Duras, Bowles, and many others. All there. Buried deep inside was a solid foundation.

For many years, my soul found solace in drawing, among other things. The well of spring water that taught me how to. Helped to connect the dots. Find the correspondences mentioned earlier. The quest for beauty, elevation, balance and the spiritual. Putting the torments on hold, less chance of being swept away. What made it bearable those days.

Being in front of a white page, an ocean, emptying my mind, leaving the surrounding noise behind and making space. Where the journey matters more than the initial idea.

Hic et nunc allowing ‘what is’ to burst out. Reaching the emptiness that precedes, and engulfs, this sense of plenitude. Closer to the divine.

A space wherein it was easy switching gears, composing with infinite layers. Across continents. Getting a sense there was a beginning, an end and a context. A mental space showing the way to deal with my apparent contradictions, giving me strength to tackle similar issues in real life. Enabling the brain to see. The mental physicality of it. An essence that infused beyond the discipline’s confines. What lies beneath the surface could appear.

My drawings and pictures somehow were the proof I was alive. And still are. They became my memories, the tangible proof it actually happened. The witnesses to my life even.

An ersatz, a life by procuration one could argue. Maybe.

Closing doors, saying no, choosing a destination, finishing a journey. The tempting shadow of another possible slowly fading, however tempting. Or was I simply paying less attention to it? Had I finally realised that a continent contains them all? That continuity and concentration were essential to move forward. There were times when the line between stupidity and patience seemed so thin that I was tempted give up. But did not.

It is only by treading this one path consistently, that one can then really move on to something else. Make the subsequent step. The preamble to another symphony, to a new start from a solid base this time. History in the making. String of present moments adding up whichever direction it may take later. With a spine building up.

The strata now visible, a sense of inner peace.

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SONGE PREMIER I. Le moment où l’on perd pied, où l’on prend la conscience de son propre poids, où l’on se meut dans un silence interrompu uniquement par le son de ses mouvements.

De sa respiration. Les hésitations des minutes précédentes, déjà lointaines, semblent dérisoires au vu du plaisir que l’on goute. Elles contribuent néanmoins au rituel et favorisent le sentiment de bien-être.

Préparatifs nécessaires à l’équipée.

Assis, on attend le moment où, en début de matinée, l’on se sera un peu réchauffé.

A ces heures, la mer est généralement huile – lisse et pleine (1). Les rayons du soleil ne sont alors qu’une tangente à peine perceptible sur la peau. On enlève son T-shirt, se déchausse, si ce n’est déjà le cas, et on avance vers la mer. Le premier contact est toujours saisissant ; les regards de certains rendront gaillards. Supplément de courage. Nous continuerons à avancer.

Jusqu’aux genoux sans problème majeur, cela devient moins évident au niveau du haut des cuisses et du bas ventre. Partie sensible peu habituée à une eau si froide sans avertissement ni préambule.

Une fois cette étape franchie, on se laissera tomber, recueilli par l’eau salée. Peu d’instance où le corps est ainsi pris en charge: enveloppé et soutenu par une main bienveillante. On se sent déposé. Viendront ensuite les premières brassées sous l’eau.

Permettre à un temps long de s’écouler entre celles-ci. Le son de son corps, le déferlement des bulles sur la peau, le silence reprenant le dessus une fois la brassée complétée. Regagner la surface, confronté

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une nouvelle fois à l’air. Après quelques mouvements de crawl, s’immerger à nouveau.

Immersion profonde cette fois, sans impulsion autre que celle fournie par les brassées précédent la plongée. Se tourner et compléter le mouvement sur le dos en regardant la surface. L’oxygène se dilatant à mesure que les bulles rejoignent l’air libre. Être proche de soi.

Nager ensuite de bouée en bouée en établissant un rythme dans sa tête.

Routine, nécessaire et gratifiante, permettant de soutenir l’effort. Le bonheur ensuite de rejoindre la rive, revigoré, de sentir ses muscles éveillés. Mouillé, ravi de s’asseoir sur la plage et de reprendre la pleine possession de son corps et de son poids.

Premier café ensuite. Avec croissant.

II. Faute de regarder régulièrement l’ennemi dans les yeux, la mémoire se chargea d’en préserver la physionomie. Nier cet ennemi eut été vain. Certains, la plupart même, s’y accrochaient comme si raison d’état se confondait avec raison d’être. Y porter atteinte eut eu un impact violent ; l’intime se confondant ici avec le public.

La conviction des administrés se nourrissait d’attentes et de rumeurs parfois délibérément orchestrées. Il était important que les messages se transmettent par le dessous, par des on-dit dont répétitions et provenances indéfinies conférèrent un semblant d’autorité. A intervalles réguliers, la fièvre s’empara de la ville s’abreuvant de l’absence de menace visible, donnant corps à leur

combat et justifiant l’existence de chacun.

Elle soulageait les administrés, leur permettait de ne devoir trop compter sur leur imagination.

Les règles étaient d’autant plus évidentes que l’objet, qu’elles définissaient, était fragile.

Il se vit donc affecter à cette garnison reculée de la seigneurie, à la frange du royaume, en son point le plus méridional.

Ce poste était l’ultime rempart, la frontière avec l’ennemi. Somnolant à l’écart, ne se souvenant plus réellement de ce à quoi ressemblait cet ennemi ; le poste, et la ville adjacente, vivait dans un état d’attente et de guet permanent que légitimait un pouvoir discret.

Dès son arrivée, la nécessité d’accepter cet état, de participer au protocole, était évidente. Beaucoup s’étonnèrent de l’aisance avec laquelle il s’en accommoda, de sa manière de déchiffrer les non-dits.

Habitué à rappeler ses recrues à l’ordre, le commandant de la garnison ne s’y trompait pas et le gardait à l’œil.

La présence de la garnison était essentielle.

Le fort, et son rituel militaire quotidien, donnait aux administrés ce sentiment de permanence, de veille tangible. La mission de la garnison consistait à protéger les côtes par lesquelles l’ennemi eut pu les surprendre.

Depuis des décennies, elle se cantonnait à des tâches d’observation sans contact réel avec l’ennemi. Le commandant veillait au grain, attentif à maintenir en permanence un protocole strict. Rares furent les distractions, aussi, fut-il soulagé d’être supporté dans son commandement par les poussées de fièvre.

Le commandant s’assurait donc, lors de ses rares entrevues avec la Princesse, de son support. Elle lui prêtait une oreille attentive tout en se gardant de lui donner l’impression que ses requêtes eurent la moindre influence sur le cours des événements.

La frontière, ou l’idée d’une frontière, était omniprésente. Elle suscitait convoitise, crainte et fascination. Ce rubicon attisait les pulsions quand il n’en était l’instigateur; corollaire des poussées de fièvre, contrepoids pour faire bonne mesure. La majorité en restait éloignée, se tenait à l’écart conformément aux règles. Certains souhaitaient s’en approcher, voire provoquer le système. Le contrevenant ne pouvait perpétrer ce forfait que s’il était autorisé et encadré. Les activités de contrebande nocturne étaient monnaie courante, sous couvert de grande discrétion.

Dans la ville, quelques palais rappelaient le faste ancestral. Leurs grandeurs se réduisaient aujourd’hui aux façades pompeuses à l’abri desquels se décidait encore le devenir des administrés. Pour les administrateurs, et ceux des administrés qui disséminaient leurs ordres, ces palais demeuraient le cœur de la cité. Ils n’avaient de rôle autre que de maintenir le statu quo: jamais ne s’agissait-il d’établir de nouveaux édits, lois ou autres législations. Ils se réduisaient maintenant à une fonction de soupape de sécurité, de baromètre.

La vie sociale s’épanouissait également en leur sein. Le faste des soirées mondaines suscitait à chaque fois le même engouement alors qu’elles ne dérogeaient quasi jamais au même rituel. Si surprise il y eut, ce fut une erreur, une incartade, un chemin de traverse

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usité généralement par la Princesse.

Ces moments de flottement ne duraient jamais longtemps.

que tardivement que les administrateurs s’étaient dispersés, qu’il avait donc été le seul à être convié à diner. En tête à tête.

Pour sa première apparition, il se savait attendu. Son arrivée ne manquerait de susciter un grand intérêt. Accompagnant le commandant, paré de son uniforme protocolaire, il fut accueilli par la Princesse qui fit de sorte qu’il soit en bonne compagnie.

La galerie, dans lequel avait lieu le bal, était d’une longueur étonnante, bordée de fenêtres donnant sur le canal et ses quais. Au bout du canal, se profilait la mer.

L’éclairage de la galerie n’était assuré que par quelques lustres et bougies, en contraste avec l’illumination excessive des escaliers et du hall d’entrée.

A la fin du diner, elle lui proposa une croisière digestive le long du canal. Il faisait encore chaud, belle soirée d’automne. Certainement une des dernières balades nocturnes possible avant l’hiver. Ils embarquèrent discrètement et voguèrent sans jamais trop s’éloigner de la rive, hormis les quelques minutes où ils pénétrèrent les eaux plus profondes (2). Dans la pénombre, ils cessèrent progressivement de parler. Le silence s’instaura naturellement. Elle l’enjoignit de s’approcher. Il s’exécuta, sans pour autant couvrir toute la distance les séparant, et sans la quitter des yeux. Au loin, la ville s’endormait doucement, ses lumières scintillant au grès des flots. L’embarcation amorça un demi-tour pour progressivement reprendre la direction du palais. Ces quelques instants d’intimité disparaitraient à mesure que le quai s’approchait. Il glissa la main sous sa jupe. Elle était absorbée, entière, par ce point de contact.

Appréhension et ouverture.

Les convives se parlaient de manière mesurée. Des rires éclataient çà et là. Tout suggérait que la plupart se connaissaient.

Il était intéressant d’observer administrateurs et ceux des administrés qui travaillaient au service de la seigneurie ; le statut plus précaire de ces derniers les incitait à une plus grande réserve ou, au contraire, à un entregent plus démonstratif.

La Princesse profita de cette soirée pour le prendre à part, l’entrainant discrètement dans ses salons privés qui donnaient également sur le canal - au bout de la galerie. Elle lui posa de nombreuses questions et semblait se soucier de son acclimatation. Il fut honoré d’une telle sollicitude.

Ils se revirent quelques semaines plus tard lors de son premier conseil. Le conseil terminé, scrutant les cartes géographiques suspendues au mur, il ne se rendit compte

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Tous deux n’esquissèrent le moindre mouvement. Elle avait détourné le regard.

Sa tête inclinée reposait sur le bord de l’embarcation, son regard perdu au loin suivant les contours de la cité. Ses pieds étalés sur le pont, chevilles inertes.

La rive s’approchait. Ils se quittèrent ensuite sans mot dire, tous deux comblés. Peut-être retrouverait-il un tel moment d’intimité avec la Princesse ? Rien n’était moins sûr.

Quoiqu’elle fasse, tout se sut rapidement; rendant toute relation non protocolaire plus compliquée, ne pouvant s’épanouir que

dans le secret ou l’intensité de quelques instants.

Elle garderait l’initiative du prétexte.

L’obscurité serait de mise. La communion se retrouverait-elle intacte ou aurait-elle simplement disparu ? En surface, il était difficile de distinguer les remous de cette onde qui se propagerait longtemps ou simplement disparaitrait sans laisser de trace. Pas moins compliqué de prédire quand l’instant resurgirait : lors d’une chasse, d’une chevauchée nocturne ou de l’envoi d’une missive. Une chose était certaine, se revoir au palais n’était plus une option. Délibérément passif, il laissa à la Princesse l’initiative de la distribution des cartes.

L’approche de l’hiver se fit sentir. Les journées s’écourtèrent permettant au froid de s’installer. La vie de la garnison devint son quotidien. Son don de l’observation, sa faculté de s’adapter, de vivre dans l’ambiguïté lui furent précieux. La Princesse était conquise, les administrateurs séduits, d’autres intrigués. L’état d’attente lancinant prévalant ici trouvait résonnance en son âme, il avait des ressources profondes desquelles il pouvait puiser. Une traversée du désert était concevable pour lui, aussi longue soit-elle. Dans le passé, il avait néanmoins, à quelques reprises, poussé ses limites. Son ressort interne, à force d’être sollicité, s’affaiblit et oublia même ce vers quoi il tendait – frôlant l’extinction du sentiment. Une lecture, une rencontre, un souvenir, une page blanche, un changement de contexte lui permirent, bien souvent, de se ressourcer.

Le dimanche, jour de repos, il entreprit une chevauchée solitaire. S’enfonçant dans l’épais maquis, il s’éloigna du poste vers le nord de la seigneurie. Malgré la saison, un soleil timide parvenait à le réchauffer.

Les odeurs de bruyère, de myrtes et de bois se mélangèrent à celles de son cheval.

Les conditions étaient parfaites. L’esprit libre, il put se concentrer sur les mouvements réguliers de son cheval et la beauté du paysage. Au loin se profilait la mer, elle le suivrait tout au long de sa promenade.

Ne se perdant jamais de vue. Il s’arrêta pour déjeuner en milieu d’après-midi. L’âme en paix pour la première fois depuis longtemps.

La seigneurie se couvrit, avant Noël, d’un épais matelas blanc. La neige accentua le silence dans lequel la cité s’assoupissait.

La rumeur, les bruits de pas et des exercices militaires s’étaient tant estompés qu’on eut le sentiment qu’ils eurent cessés. Les plus hautes instances rapportèrent qu’un vaisseau ennemi avait été repéré dans les eaux territoriales de la seigneurie. L’état d’alerte fut décrété. Quoique conscients qu’il pouvait également s’agir d’un navire ami, tous s’activèrent. Chacun dans son rôle. Le calme léthargique fut supplanté par une frénésie belliqueuse.

Pour une période indéfinie, le système retrouvait sa légitimité. Nul besoin de régler le baromètre. Une occasion de relancer le système, de mettre les choses à plat sans pour autant qu’elles ne changent réellement.

L’ennemi invisible momentanément remplacé par une menace bien tangible.

Qu’elle soit réelle ou non.

Un jour, il repartirait. (3)

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III. Il ne faisait pas si bien dire et répétait souvent qu’il lui fallait dix ans pour comprendre quoique ce soit. Le temps n’avait qu’un impact limité sur lui et ne lui était précieux que dans la mesure où il entretenait la permanence du sentiment. Une prédilection pour l’instant que le temps ne peut altérer.

Ils furent légion à conclure à de la stagnation voire de la désinvolture. En apparence, la majorité n’a que rarement tort, ils étaient cependant quelques-uns à avoir perçu son tourment, en-deçà de la surface. Aucun doute, pour ceux-là, de la force du courant souterrain. Mais, c’eut été empiéter sur son secret le plus intime que de le rendre trop publique.

Embrasser différentes personnalités avec l’aplomb seyant à ceux qui essaient, en toutes circonstances, de faire de leur mieux.

Entre l’intensité d’une fonction publique et le besoin de recueillement, n’être en mesure que de montrer une part de sa vérité.

La destinée de l’empereur Hadrien, « étranger » à Rome, eut en lui un écho profond (4).

S’adonner au pouvoir et ses combats, tout en restant à l’écoute de l’amour esthète et sensible. Etreindre des rôles parfois contradictoires en ayant l’intelligence de ne pas s’y perdre avec autour de soi délabrement, solitude ou euphorie.

Des déserts également. Entre force et délicatesse. La faculté de s’en accommoder, sans renier son socle, sans velléité de convertir son entourage à sa vision du monde.

Le détachement comme mode de vie, hygiène plus que philosophie.

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Cela s’apparentait, dans son esprit, à une forme d’aristocratie : non tant pour le statut ou le protocole, que pour la permanence d’un état.

«Un prince manque ici de la latitude offerte au philosophe : il ne peut se permettre de différer sur trop de points à la fois, et les dieux savent que mes points de différence n’étaient déjà que trop nombreux, bien que je me flattasse que beaucoup fussent invisibles» (5).

La prédilection pour le crépuscule ou l’aube, un état latent lui permettant d’être. La fin d’un règne, prélude à une mort sans cesse retardée (6). Un passé révolu à présent distant, un futur en veille. Des palais quelque peu vétustes au sein desquels le temps aurait suspendu son cours. « Déjà, certaines portions de ma vie ressemblent aux salles dégarnies d’un palais trop vaste, qu’un propriétaire appauvri renonce à occuper tout entier. » Résonance avec ce que Gracq qualifie, à la même époque, de lassitude et de veuvage triste. Il était conscient de la chance qu’il eut, très tôt, d’avoir perçu et reconnu le songe premier. La limpidité avec laquelle il saisit ce dont son âme avait besoin. Quels que soient les chemins de traverses, les errances ou les impasses; il y revenait et y reviendrait. La fondation du sentiment amoureux. Son salut.

Ne vous méprenez pas, il était, le plus clair du temps, d’humeur joyeuse. Il aura joui intensément de ses années et continuera à le faire. Cela ne faisait le moindre doute, pour lui, que les portes qu’il entrouvrit durant ses jeunes années, les recoins de l’âme qu’il visita, ses lectures et ses amours, resteraient. Signes avant-coureurs.

La curiosité, le désir et la disposition d’esprit permettraient de redécouvrir ces salles clairsemées de quelques meubles, de s’intéresser au contenu de tiroirs diversement remplis, de s’assoir sur un fauteuil élimé attendant que l’ennui produise l’extase.

Cette nécessité de continuer à occuper sa maison tout en s’abreuvant de l’amour et du monde extérieur, du changement permanent.

Demain également. Il faut du temps pour être jeune, pour atteindre une maitrise suffisante que pour pouvoir se laisser aller.

IV. A défaut d’autres référents, ses amours et les siens façonnèrent sa géographie intérieure: des bourgades, des provinces et quelques continents. Ils constituaient ce à quoi il pouvait se rattacher. Pour l’instant ou la croisade, il dut se résoudre à en délaisser, quand d’autres le quittèrent de manière temporaire ou permanente.

Déchirement dans certains cas, le mal et la conscience de l’avoir infligé ou subi.

Continents.

Source indemne Soupir Quoi ? Rien, répondit-il.

Un monde s’était exprimé.

Continent arrimé à jamais.

Souffle.

L’imagination investit ces territoires, jouxtant le sien et à présent vides, d’une présence sourde. Ils longent nos chemins, que nous traversions plaines, mers ou massifs montagneux.

Comme si un vent chaud soufflait en provenance de la mer.

Le soleil irradiant, sans émettre de chaleur.

Lumière désaturée.

La nuit se faisant, sans que la température ne change.

La géographie n’éloigne le continent que d’une frontière ténue et éminemment artificielle : un poste de contrôle, une rivière, une mer ou un climat. Le passage du temps n’altère en rien cette géographie immuable.

Ses continents sont le roc duquel il est constitué, son rapport au monde et son identité; c’est avec le temps qu’il s’en rendit compte. Les sédiments de sa mare ne se déposant que lentement sur le lit. Limpidité du songe premier. Richesse d’une source chérie qui ne se tarit pas : s’y ressourcer, s’y reconnaitre, s’y abreuver.

Tout est une succession d’esquisses plus ou moins abouties, tout est continent.

Et c’est ce qui rendait la vie si belle.

Le respirer à chaque instant.

L’âme sœur. L’immense océan silencieux. La petite rive.

En-dessous, une fidélité inconditionnelle.

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NOTES PREMIER CHAPITRE (1) Méditerranée (2) ‘Landvoices and the lights ebb away raising the nght around us. Unwinding whitely, My changing motive pays me slowly out.

The sea sails in. The quay opens wide its arms and waves us loose.’

W.S. Graham (3) Librement inspiré des personnages du ‘Rivage des Syrthes’ de Julien Gracq.

(4) ‘Etranger partout, je ne me sentais particulièrement isolé nulle part.’

(5) Extraits provenant du livre de Marguerite Yourcenar, ‘Les mémoires d’Hadrien.’ « Chaque fois que j’ai regardé de loin, au détour de quelque route ensoleillée, une acropole grecque, et sa ville parfaite comme une fleur, reliée à sa colline comme le calice à sa tige, je sentais que cette plante incomparable était limitée par sa perfection même, accomplie sur un point de l’espace et dans un segment du temps. Sa seule chance d’expansion, comme celle des plantes, était sa graine : la semence d’idées dont la Grèce a fécondé le monde.

Mais Rome, plus lourde, plus informe, plus vaguement étalé dans sa plaine au bord de son fleuve, s’organisait vers des développements plus vastes. » (Mémoires d’Hadrien, M. Yourcenar) (6) Rock ’n roll

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Limited edition of 75 All texts, drawings and photographs by Marc Smit Except Pollock (page 8), Ingres (page 10), Cézanne (page 11), Degas (page 31), Twombly (pages 32 and 47) Book design by Penny Lee