Galerie Arlette Gimaray - 1990

Toutes les meules, tous les bleus du monde


Exhibition Gallery Arlette Gimaray, Paris

Cimaise n° 206 / 207 1990

"All the haystack, all the blues in the world..."

Piled-up straw, stacks found in the center of whirlwinds of grass and dust, Martine Mougin schow us volumes.

No one would want to bury themselves in them. Not even for an empire. But who ever said that a conical form, in short a hideout, a domain, a lair, a burrow, a shelter-with its opening at the top and this post that could represent a chimney-chould necessarily invite one the find refuge in it.

Indeed, Martine Mougin does not search to reassure the viewer. Her work incites other dreams. She photograhs haystacks. Haystascks in the daytime, haystacks at night. All the haystaks in the world.

Tuscanny, Holland, eastern Europe...She paints her photographs blue. An Yves klein blue, dark blue, straw yellow...Haystacks, Romanesque, Gothic forms, vaults. An these forms shelter a secret, one hauting them. But this secret is not a hidden, buried treasure. As in the past when peasants hid gold coins in the walls of their humble cottages. There is nothing like that here. Nothing palpable. What is hauting in this work is the siprit of the setting. What was once called a presence. And it is this presence that makes all of the artist's work vibrate. Secret even though these is nothing to hide. Offering itself to the eye entirely.

If we remain pensives when looking at these conical forms, these tinted haystacks ressembling night crystals, ordeals of light, point of locations, these « dwellings », it is not because we want to know what they represent. They hide no secret world. Everything is there, clearly exposed, altered only by a coloring. And yet...

Something, the essential, remains concealed. A haystack and another haystack around a post or on plies. Nothing extraodinary. On the contrary, it is intentionally that the means are so limited. Nothing takes place other than the presence of the formitself. An it is this simplicity that creates the mystery. But the question is there. without any tangible answer: « what is a representation, a painting, a photograph, a form chosen, desired by the artist ? Do we know? Have we ever know ? Will we ever know ?

But perhaps, indeed, the essence of the representation and of the image remains forever secret. Let us respect it. There is no other way bof seeing it.


Claude Bouyeure 





Sources : Aucune