The Art Work of Pasquale Lecreux
It's a lightly shadow, a filly dark night. An explosion shattering, flashing stetting out explosion.
And it's flesh too, flesh still wrapped up in veils of past lives, dreamt,
crashed, forgotten lives and somewhere
behind the skin tight jean, reflect on hard and damp marble of a nymph body, new, a heart beats.....
A heart beats !! A heart beats !!
Armies burst to life, bees in their hives, warps in their webs. Not warps\
, not bees, ready to spread out their fragile crystal wings for an unique\
flight. Those which survive really survive, exploding their life, fertilizing the earth where they lay down, for eternity.
What then the powerlessness of his who has only words, with their limits, their borders, their poor juggling of sentences ?
The strength of the artist is in his stomach. In his stomach which tight
ns painfully, till it twists itself, till it rolls in the spring and in the days till it can't stand it anymore and it comes out by itself, till it takes up all space, eating the canvas, imposing itself, as if, himself, the artist doesn't understand anything anymore and looks on like his own audience at his creation, as if all that hadn't boiled in him, fermented, grown, as if all that hadn't built in him, feeding on every hour, every minute, every second of a life. Sure he doesn't ever know it, but his paintings, his drawings, his works, there is his memory.
Any thing more, too, any thing more.
Behind the tight jean, behind the move, behind the colour which sometime shines, that lining up to eternity, those metamorphosis, those suspended moments, those captured cries, the Artist Pasquale Lecreux, her anger, her move, her heart.
That beat, you hear it ?
That beat !
A heart ..................