Michel Carmantrand, 2024.

House on the bank (for Pierre Bonnard), acrylic, oil, cardboard. Of course it happens that the form, in its schematic aspect, gives rise to a symbolic or figurative aspect; figurative because symbolic or symbolic because figurative, or both at the same time; but this is only a consequence and not a will, a consequence of the need for balance and imbalance in the distribution of masses and colors, that is to say of the quantity of the former in relation to the quantity of the latter in the search for an expression that is not a subjective expressive will. I cannot, beyond this stage, concern myself with subsidiary echoes; so it can for example make one think of a cross, but there was no question of drawing a cross; it can make one think of a house, but there was no question of painting a house; it can make one think of a letter, but there was no question of sending a letter; etc. Here I would like to thank Burkhard @burkharddierks whose comments helped me to clarify this point. In a nutshell, by extrapolating, painting always represents something, this regardless of whether it is figurative or not. On the one hand, as it is the representative of the artist, it represents the artist; on the other hand, more broadly and seen from opposite, it represents the desire of the public, of those who watch it, or not, whether they love it or hate it (there is no particular reason for one to like seeing one's desire represented, to the extent that it can be shocking), it is their desire that it "draws", paints, represents.
House on the bank (for Pierre Bonnard), acrylic, oil, cardboard. Of course it happens that the form, in its schematic aspect, gives rise to a symbolic or figurative aspect; figurative because symbolic or symbolic because figurative, or both at the same time; but this is only a consequence and not a will, a consequence of the need for balance and imbalance in the distribution of masses and colors, that is to say of the quantity of the former in relation to the quantity of the latter in the search for an expression that is not a subjective expressive will. I cannot, beyond this stage, concern myself with subsidiary echoes; so it can for example make one think of a cross, but there was no question of drawing a cross; it can make one think of a house, but there was no question of painting a house; it can make one think of a letter, but there was no question of sending a letter; etc. Here I would like to thank Burkhard @burkharddierks whose comments helped me to clarify this point. In a nutshell, by extrapolating, painting always represents something, this regardless of whether it is figurative or not. On the one hand, as it is the representative of the artist, it represents the artist; on the other hand, more broadly and seen from opposite, it represents the desire of the public, of those who watch it, or not, whether they love it or hate it (there is no particular reason for one to like seeing one's desire represented, to the extent that it can be shocking), it is their desire that it "draws", paints, represents.


Ricordo che ricordo, 163x163cm (64x64"), oil on prepared canvas. As said previously, the three recent memories have opened up a fourth one. One day in Berlin, on a rainy, hot, heavy and humid day, as we were heading towards the café where we had got into the habit of going every midday (double espresso for me, cappuccino for Laurence), passing through one of those small, shady and damp cobbled streets of Neukölln, a very particular sour smell nailed me to the spot (mentally). It was precisely the sour smell that, like a Proustian madeleine, made me go back fifty years: the smell of bread crumb soaked in water and kneaded into a viscous grayish ball that my father and i left to macerate for a few days in a closed box in Niamey, Niger, before shaping them into small balls that we stuck on our hooks when we went fishing in dubious and shady populated backwaters. So in an instant, a lasting instant, suddenly Berlin saturated with Africa exploded! A city cannot contain a continent. I no longer remember at all if we ever caught a fish, but that was not the point despite appearances. Here is an unintentional play on words, same pronunciation in French: 'apparences' (appearances) and 'appâts rances' (rancid baits).
Ricordo che ricordo, 163x163cm (64x64"), oil on prepared canvas. As said previously, the three recent memories have opened up a fourth one. One day in Berlin, on a rainy, hot, heavy and humid day, as we were heading towards the café where we had got into the habit of going every midday (double espresso for me, cappuccino for Laurence), passing through one of those small, shady and damp cobbled streets of Neukölln, a very particular sour smell nailed me to the spot (mentally). It was precisely the sour smell that, like a Proustian madeleine, made me go back fifty years: the smell of bread crumb soaked in water and kneaded into a viscous grayish ball that my father and i left to macerate for a few days in a closed box in Niamey, Niger, before shaping them into small balls that we stuck on our hooks when we went fishing in dubious and shady populated backwaters. So in an instant, a lasting instant, suddenly Berlin saturated with Africa exploded! A city cannot contain a continent. I no longer remember at all if we ever caught a fish, but that was not the point despite appearances. Here is an unintentional play on words, same pronunciation in French: 'apparences' (appearances) and 'appâts rances' (rancid baits).

























Michel Carmantrand Down dawned, 216x163cm (85x64"), oil on canvas and steel sharps.
Down dawned, 216x163cm (85x64"), oil on canvas. As we can see, the bottom of the canvas is turned over. First painting of 2024.