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Log book


The Sphinx

Creations

Log book

Slide show

The artist

My favourites



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fictitious characters? not completely... small serpentine story in which "the Sphinx" crosses life, no place exists... mandiant of desire, story in accordion, small multi-fonction pocket knife through which the Sphinx engraves here and there, an invisible scar. You who enter this notebook voyage, jumping joined feet in this chimerical adventure... if you recognize yourselves in this virtual outing... it surely won’t be fruit of fate.

The "Sphinx" around fifty, a little agitator, surely provocative... "I am a man and it is natural all things considered"... brown eyes, semi-long hair, I get dressed in a relaxed style, loose jeans... nothing compared with the clothes of the charming prince or of a matador... fallen in love following the unexpected meeting with a fairy with a half voyeuristic side, and a completely insane one...she slowly leaned over my cradle... it is necessary for me now to break this charm, by the tender kiss of an unsuspected princess... Through this strange route, these words, I paint, love, desire, life... expressing here, especially this need for freedom, space and dream. To like, immediately, without waiting, the reason which dismantles the heart, with the intuition of the moment... it is not easy to be authentic immediately, to span its own interior safety requirements... it is undoubtedly necessary to be burned to become truly oneself, if not one remains fixed, an unsavoury individual reaches asphyxiation vainly. It could be a beginning, I cross life, no place does not exist. I tell stories to flee, it is enough for me to be share some regret at once, irreconcilable moments that these small misunderstandings of the heart... and to give up painting it is not enough to be satisfied to be.


Meudon on December 31

There is not, here in Meudon, much to say about the small city nearby Paris, but it swings for sure in Meudon... the "Sphinx", forty some years under his belt... it’s richness is time, artist in fallow, to give up painting it is not enough to be content with just being... sadness and irony at the edge of the lips, this evening, I dance... I shake myself, sweating perfiously, on a rock'n'roll tune "I will survive" by Gloria Gaynor... Here is how one can find oneself on shaky ground, in survival between a shifted smiling catherinette…the abandoned catogan with the wind, quivers catastrophists, and privileged partner... a candy pink shirt, provocative low cut, two red experimented lips, ready to melt on a frozen scarabe, the bettle petrified by the blow... and this permanent desire of Egypt which quickly makes it’s way to the surface...

 

 

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Incontournable evening, that remains to be seen... I returned the image that was giving to me, that of an uncontrolled artist. Among the still virgin fabrics, the books, the tables, piles of photographs, vinyls, carnivorous plants, in this capharnaüm abandoned to itself; truculent evening there or of the artists kamikazes are mislaid there... cross intellectuals in goguette, globe trotters, without humour, white Russians, real sample of a tolerated improvisation... singular house of the 27th castle avenue... aligned at the edge of the avenue, the path shaded by majestic lime trees... these centanials gave me the revolving chair trick... chlorophyllian inaccuracy, not, uprooting kafkaïen. Another time, other manners: Richard Wagner and his wife Mina lived in the house during the winter of 1841 where he conscientiously worked on his opera "the Ghost ship".


Virginia and Ted circle instinctively, Virginia, true brown with the sparkling eyes, traveller of arts and hearts... instigator, mother exquisite... Ted her man, is large and a champion of rock'n'roll, this white guy, this guy, with misleading somnolence... it is now close to midnight, the festival started... the frail branch of missel-toe suspended above our heads did not start this cascade of so much hoped kisses yet... ah, to leave, to put surreptitiously the foot in an unknown city. Two imperturbable faces, four eyes... on a bench there just opposite, a couple observes us... Annie and Marcel Crougnard him: a pilot repented the airline company Bel Air and her: an air-hostess suspended... these two do not have anything better to do other than to watch the rear end of "the insane one" which dances with me. With Marcel it is a long history... I will return later. We invite them to pass through the door, the rogues go straight to the toilets... with its waistcoat without a belt, its watch with chain, and his suit of pageantry, of an odd mood, Marcel with one chance out of two not to hit a side... in short I wanted to get fresh air, profiting that my off-hand and flowery girlfriend is talking in the kitchen with his girlfriend, I go to the garden to air my head…

An itching which raises in my heart, a desire with flower of skin... tender phantasm: that of a woman angel, a vestal, a woman of harem with a beautiful smile... Ah, to find a good heart, an artistically sweetened inspiration... that there even which in a breath, would teach me the secret of hope and waiting... this small sister which in the rule of art would take my hands in hers sometimes and would whisper to me of immaculate councils... Does this rare pearl dredge her Internet? "Under the skirts of the girls" the legs of the women are compasses, which survey the terrestrial sphere in all directions, giving it balance and harmony. Fluid world at these various hours, in search of images, impressions, emotions, I am not only a painter, in truth, a hunter, the painter tracks the daily newspaper, using deep intention close to that of his instinct, watching and tearing off his life...