Chauder, this painter is my friend
Life is made up of distinct moments, separated, moments which sometimes
violate the
order of things.
Often the disorder of time, like a wind pushing us, carries us towards the
heart of another.
In this unexpected way, from line to line, an irresistible energy adds
another element to the
development of mankind...
Faith in the other !!
We do not know where hearts come from, hearts destined to meet.
I crossed the path of a man who invests the world with a marvelous range of
colours,
In a different vibration.
A man bent over his canvas. . . as stuck to his own skin.
The man who is painting is in exile. in a language which makes him feel
drunk.
SOME KIND OF REMOTE TRANSPARENCY, so close and yet so far from everything.
He meets his multiform and multicoloured world as if in a dream.
There is a kind of fragility in him, as in a child.
How does he resemble the future?
Painters are like inconsolable children. They breathe and keep silent. They
hold their
anxiety awake, connect spaces, connect humanity... persist in making colours
pulsate.
The earth keeps them company. They celebrate it with their fingers...
I do love their silence, this silence where the life of the soul is
beating...
A silence like the right word or the heart of a fireplace.
There I find again this childish contentment, this true joy given by the
people I loved as a
child, this "seller of colours"where I used to buy pencils...
A happiness which fills your eyes with tears...
The rhythm of the painter's gestures reminds me of these words from
F.LEFEVRE :
"We go on achieving these gestures that the fury of the world will take away
from you
tomorrow, because our society likes neither love, nor slowness or silence,
nor absence.
In a world invaded by craters, he, like a quiet traveler, follows the way of
gentleness, of this
river which runs through him.
A colour comes to him as a word comes to us.
He goes on, slowly, as if held far from the threatened places, like an
ethereal heart
HOPING to guaranty eternal life to everything.
Since then, I look for a word to tell him, a word he will never forget, I
will surely never find it...
But there is this music, beautiful and suddenly here...
The one he created one day, a lovely day in my memory. Painters are like
inconsolable children,
and yet, next to them it is as if we were less afraid of bad news...
Their works contain hours of waiting, the texture of time and silence...
I remember this writer looking for traces of silence in the life of painters
he liked. He was
talking beautifully about "the friendly colours" and about the painting which
had made
him "happy for life" because there he had found the "forgotten colours", the
colours
of the thresholds which he wanted to cross.
In this way is happiness within reach of a hand, within reach of a step :
WE NEVER WALK IN VAIN
We meet and our souls stay close
We meet... BROTHERS WILL COME TO US SOONER OR LATER
This painter is my friend.
One day, the poet wrote: " Only a drop separates us... then comes a reserve of light which comforts
the day and we
cannot leave it because the sky is not enough for us any more... and because
the river runs
desperately without ever waiting for us ".
(Yvon Le Men).
THERE IS ALWAYS A MOMENT IN YOUR WALK WHERE THE WEATHER IS BEAUTIFUL...
among the trees and the centuries, between the stones and the sky, this
moment
during the walk when light has climbed all through the range from blue to
blue-grey... from
red to gold... before a painter makes it his or a traveler comes to a stop,
before a warrior gives
it his faith or a poet dreams to follow it".
Infinite silence and colours make multiple beings, cherishing life and
death, creating this
absolute which one recognizes neither in life nor in death...
Fabulous identity of the abstract...
Like ANOTHER BREATH NOURISHING THE WORD...
Walking as a child, this man came to me, as a loving brother, with shades of
light gold on
his hands, such as this brilliance in the glance of poor children playing
with stars... children
excited by waiting, who make a wonder out of nothing...
He invents unknown times like messengers, wild hearts appearing innocent...
His colours fly away from the canvas
And through the windows of his paintings
He is there today
The painter is my friend
A bird does not know it is a bird, it only knows it must fly away
Here is its destiny, here is its freedom
He knows that there are areas of shade and sun to talk about, to cross his
path, always
curiously free
His creation is his peace, his smile, the surge of his voice and his
silence, his language
without words and limits, the force of his soul
Like these songs written on our walls, like our dances of joy, our paths of
sorrow, our cries
of love or war
So go the ways of our souls
In the search for the very last blade of grass in the sunset light
This painter is my friend
GF Bernardini

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