Petals
Petals
anno 2017
Rashly petals of blooming poppies whirl down in the wind, falter on a branch, fall on the soil.
Maybe they are blown up to land in a puddle but all will wither after a couple of days, slack and sleepy...
As in a late colourful fall they fade over time from crimson to brown, offering the onlooker a palette of gradiations and a key to fantasy.
The Petals series is about this.
Time being we forget for a while this Papaver somniferum's procreative instinst, the bringer of sleep also known as poppy for the flower pops at once out a little green box, and we also forget the myth of In Flanders' Fields for this series does not relate to them.
Petals celebrates the beauty of decay and the wondrous world of the detail. It even is not about flowers...
Ezra Pound and Emily Dickinson tell the same tale as the petals of Si BollĂŠ, the story of people, strangers whom you met by chance in a Paris' metro station, or a poetess metamorphosing into a flower...
Petals, mirrors to the onlooker, complete worlds for the gaze, wanting and willing to pierce the trompe-l'oeil wich is called "paintings". Penetrating layers of acrylic paint and aquarelle on canvas ( for it is no more than this) and entering strange worlds wich are nothing more than a reflection of one's own world.. The artist makes the world, the open-minded spectator makes sense of it, and this dialogue turns a work into a work of art. So many spectators, so many stories, each story being different from the other.
Questions each human being poses to him/herself, without answer.
Petals are innumerable lives, the own life and the life of others whom you know, and of many more whom you don't know.
Petals can be faces, or eyes, or fingers...
180x180 cm
Or: Life is a stream On wich we strew Petal by Petal the flower of your heart; The end lost in dream, They float past our view, We only watch their glad, early start. Freighted with hope, Crimsoned with joy, We scatter the leaves of our opening rose; Their widening scope, Their distant employ, We never shall know. And the stream as it flows Sweep them away, Each one is gone Ever beyond into infinite ways. We alone stay While years hurry on, The flower fared forth, through its fragrance still stays. Amy Lowell
Fingers Every time I look at my hands with my fingers open on my lap I am moved Tiny fingers are pulsating as if they were petals of the flowers that bloomed in me They look proud They look happy snuggling with each other As if they had never been forced to do anything mean anything despicable by me Michio Mado
Si BollĂŠ's visual haikus invite the onlooker to call up poetical introspection. Do the paintings represent petals? Perhaps. Is this figurative painting? Perhaps. Or would it be abstractive art? Perhaps. The artist offers the images she made and the spectator will decide if this is a story or something else. For sure this is not linear as a film nor punctual. Asking questions is what art is about. You provide the answers. Perhaps.
Petals anno 2017 Si BollĂŠ +32/488.177.408 parfois@at-symbol.be issuu.com/sibo @SYMBOL bvba
Petals