Tassé

My house is creation; my house is built from inside out. I open each new window on my soul in secret to the onlooker; my art find eternal renewal in the enveloping beauty around me. Today, I open the shutters on playful sources they need the sun to flow and bloom.

My still lives refuse stillness Life regains the upper hand on the slow death leaking between the strokes of my paintbrush. What are my choices? Desperately, I tried to master my technique, respect the law of the Art, and follow a rigid discipline of ordered figures. It is a lost cause.

Life is alive waiting, wanting. Who am I to deny it? Still life, you are now metamorphosed in playful things. From a frozen scene, a spark of mischief transforms stasis in a twirling carousel.

Small creatures tiptoe around, harvesting crumbs of happiness falling haplessly in their path. A colored storyboard unravels and your imagination chooses the content and the end. So many observers, so many adventures. And from a single, simple fragment, the intuitive beginning takes shape and form. Then texture, color; a fruit appears. Other shapes shimmer. Some focus is mandatory.

The brushes define the design. More details . And suddenly, inexorably, a little mouse: let the adventure begin. At last a perfect balance between freedom and speech, between texture and definition: My still life is no longer still but alive.