From night
comes morning and from silence comes the beginning of painting.
Brushstrokes on the smooth bark of plane trees shining in the rain,
Traces of our past being, lineage of our ancestors
Grounding us in real time.
I paint the essence of what binds one being to another
Connecting us to the sky and earth, to our humanity
Past and Future.
Green croak of a tree frog on the footprint path
Colours.
Purple sunsets incising the brown earth of Mediterranean winter
Reds from the pallet's debris project into blacks of night sometimes with terrifying effect.
Childhood.
Linking North to South,
I paint what connects me to the world, traversing jetees, arches, imperceptable roofs protecting top from bottom,
light filtered, splashed.
What is worth a lifes breath on our menaced Earth ?
Delicately lit caves, us in equilibrium ?
What signifiance the sleeping child when the earth fissures between sky and ground ?
A hand outstreatched, hunger, anger.
I paint what binds me to nature. I listen and I am silent.
The impression of an olive tree on hard wind swept rock.
Risking injury at the base of the wall, I sketch with pencil and mark with knife.
Our body comprises impressions and memories, a filtered bypass to reach the heart.
The fog is heavy on the earth, slips alonfg walls encrusting stone and being in the dust of time.
(poem by Veronique Born, attempt at translation by Clement, december 2006).
Brushstrokes on the smooth bark of plane trees shining in the rain,
Traces of our past being, lineage of our ancestors
Grounding us in real time.
I paint the essence of what binds one being to another
Connecting us to the sky and earth, to our humanity
Past and Future.
Green croak of a tree frog on the footprint path
Colours.
Purple sunsets incising the brown earth of Mediterranean winter
Reds from the pallet's debris project into blacks of night sometimes with terrifying effect.
Childhood.
Linking North to South,
I paint what connects me to the world, traversing jetees, arches, imperceptable roofs protecting top from bottom,
light filtered, splashed.
What is worth a lifes breath on our menaced Earth ?
Delicately lit caves, us in equilibrium ?
What signifiance the sleeping child when the earth fissures between sky and ground ?
A hand outstreatched, hunger, anger.
I paint what binds me to nature. I listen and I am silent.
The impression of an olive tree on hard wind swept rock.
Risking injury at the base of the wall, I sketch with pencil and mark with knife.
Our body comprises impressions and memories, a filtered bypass to reach the heart.
The fog is heavy on the earth, slips alonfg walls encrusting stone and being in the dust of time.
(poem by Veronique Born, attempt at translation by Clement, december 2006).
