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Objective
In these paintings I am trying to set aside my ideals of image making in order to create an objective observation of seemingly prosaic events. It is an exercise in seeing in order to notice the things that many others can view but more clearly than perhaps they can. Acting as an impartial bystander, I took spontaneous photographs over a number of days of this common space, a swimming pool. Removing my thoughts and bias, I lost control of projecting a particular narrative, which allowed for more clear inspection and analysis. In paint my translation suggests information about the subject and creates curious spatial problems that situate the viewer in a particular point of view. The balance between abstraction and suggested depth creates a psychological dialogue with the audience. Arial perspective aids in creating a sense of voyeurism and surveillance, a common theme in my work.
There is a section from Albert Camus’ The Stranger that I respond to for its richly informative elaboration of events seen from the narrator’s viewpoint throughout the day. This type of stagnant discovery obliviously penetrates the reader’s subconscious and leads him to a number of personal assumptions. It also transforms the common into curious.
2007
… I went out onto the balcony.
My room looks out over the main street in the neighborhood. It was a beautiful afternoon. Yet the pavement was wet and slippery, and what few people there were were in a hurry. First, it was families out for a walk: two little boys in sailor suits, with trousers below the knees, looking a little cramped in their stiff clothes, and a little girl with a big pink bow and black patent- leather shoes. Behind them, and enormous mother in a brown silk dress, and the father, in a rather frail little man I knew by sight. He had on a bow tie and was carrying a walking stick. Seeing him with his wife, I understood why people in the neighborhood said he was distinguished. A little later the local boys went by, hair greased back, red ties, tight-fitting jackets, with embroidered pocket handkerchiefs and square toed shoes. I thought they must be heading to the movies in town. That was why they were leaving so early and hurrying toward the streetcar, laughing loudly.
After them, the street slowly emptied out. The matinees had all started, I guess. The only ones left were the shopkeeerers and the cats. The sky was clear but dull above the fig trees lining the street. On the sidewalk across the way the tobacconist brought out a chair, set it in front of his door, and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. The streetcars, packed a few minutes before, were almost empty. In the little cafÈ Chez Pierrot, next door to the tobacconist’s, the waiter was sweeping up the sawdust in the deserted restaurant inside. It was Sunday all right.
I turned my chair around and set it down like the tobacconist’s because I found that it was more comfortable that way. I smoked a couple of cigarettes, went inside to get a piece of chocolate, and went back to the window to eat it. Soon after that, the sky grew dark and I thought we were in for a summer storm. Gradually, though, it cleared up again. But the passing clouds had left a hint of rain handing over the street, which made it look darker. I sat there for a long time and watched the sky.
At five o’clock some streetcars pulled up, clanging away. They were bringing back gangs of fans from the local soccer stadium. They were crowded onto the running boards and hanging from the handrails. The streetcars that followed brought back the players, whom I recognized by their athletic bags. They were shouting and singing at the top of their lungs that their team would never die. Several of them waved to me. One of them even yelled up to me, ‘We beat ‘em!’ And I nodded, as if to say ‘Yes.’ From then on there was a steady stream of cars.
The sky changed again. Above the rooftops the sky had taken on a reddish glow, and with evening coming on the streets came to life. People were straggling back from their walks. I recognized the distinguished little man among the others. Children were either crying or lagging behind. Almost all at once moviegoers spilled out of the neighborhood theaters into the street. The young men among them were gesturing more excitedly than usual and I thought they must have seen an adventure film. The ones who had gone to the movies in town came back a little later. They looked more serious. They were still laughing, but only now and then, and they seemed tired and dreamy. But they hung around anyway, walking up and down the sidewalk across the street. The local girls, bareheaded, were walking arm in arm. The young men had made sure they would have to bump right into them and then they would make cracks. The girls giggled and turned their heads away. Several of the girls, whom I knew, waved to me.
Then the street lamps came on all of a sudden and made the first stars appearing in the night grow dim. I felt my eyes getting tired from watching the street filled with so many people and lights. The street lamps were making the pavement glisten, and the light from the streetcars would glint off someone’s shiny hair, or off a smile or a silver bracelet. Soon afterwards, with the streetcars running less often and the sky already blue above the trees and the lamps, the neighborhood emptied out, almost imperceptibly, until the first cat slowly made its way across the now deserted street. Then I thought maybe I ought to have some dinner. My neck was a little stiff from resting my chin on the back of the chair for so long. I went downstairs to buy some bread and spaghetti, did my cooking, and ate standing up. I wanted to smoke a cigarette at the window, but the air was getting colder and I felt a little chilled. I shut my windows, and as I was coming back I glanced at the mirror and saw a corner of my table with my alcohol lamp next to some pieces of bread. It occurred to me that anyway one more Sunday was over, that Maman was buried now, that I was going back to work, and that, really, nothing had changed.
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