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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