The Red Accent of Mars Intersects With the Self-Portrait Flowers

A copy of Composition 8 has been hanging for a few days on the wall of the studio, accompanying daily works, at times initiating an unexpected dialogue with them.

My gaze reveals the diversity of its forms and at times it is fixed on it following a thought, or quickly glances over it like a cloud. The red Martian accent intersects with the flowers of the self-portrait I am painting.

Is it a sail in the wind or is the sail the white triangle in the back giving breath?

Today Composition 8 is The image, “the pink tongue in the mud, the hand at the end of their fully extended arm, which opens and closes”. I move one shape close to the other and in breaking up the composition, the leg takes one step, multiplies without waiting for the other one, maintaining the Mars-red hue on the horizon."

I read you while you are talking about daily work, the one that accompanied and, with its underground rhizomes, intertwined with the painting.

“To create fabric models” you say “we took a flower for example, we drew it and coloured it from life, then stylised it depending on the current fashion, when put on paper. It was broken down while maintaining the details of the connections between the petals and leaves. The image was thus broken down and abstracted.

"The same applies to the weaving samples. To prepare the sheet for the weavers, the sample was analysed and transcribed in detail on squared paper. There, too, the resulting image completely differed from the original, with its resting areas, like an abstract composition."

"Perhaps this work” you conclude “has taught me to read in a different way.”

Now, in this two-fold hour when you are here with me, the shapes of mismatched flowers and the sails mix with the body while the colours and transparencies pass through me with their planes.

Everything resounds louder and the secret life possesses an accomplished meaning.

Composition 8 resumes its rhythm and Beckett leans from the shelf, “the tongue goes back in, the mouth closes, it must make a straight line now”...

I think of your sails, of the flowers and of the body and its retreating, of their continuous coming apart and back together again.