Christophe Bourdeaux’s works are those that resist untimely labelling. Studded with brightly colored round pellets, diffuse ovoid shapes, perforated fabric prints and, more rarely, flowers, they demand that you take the time to look at them, to let your eye get used to them. Despite the dominance of the primary colors, between matter and light, they give themselves away gently, according to their own internal dynamic, a little like the luminous spots that appear on the retina when we have contemplated the sky.
The artist brushes acrylic onto large sheets of Japanese paper, layering them like the glazes used by Flemish Renaissance painters. The paper is extremely fragile. It’s a conscious choice. A thin membrane like a hymen, it confronts the artist with the limits of the act of painting. It crumples, cracks and sometimes tears. Accidents are an important part of the creative process, which remains organic and based on a long process of experimentation. Conversely, the implementation process is precise and well thought out. It’s not a sudden burst, but a sweeping gesture, like a slow rise of the waters or the spread of a deep breath. Rather than concise haikus, Christophe Bourdeaux prefers long poems that require concentration of the mind. The atmosphere in his workplace is one of contemplation. Hanging on the walls, the diaphanous canvases respond to each other, resonating and vibrating like icons lit by a multitude of votive candles. One hesitates to take notes, so intrusive does the sound of the pencil on the page seem. In large boxes, the artist has arranged casts of small lacquered mouths like insects in a collection. They speak of silence and, like the rest of the work, embody a salutary return to calm.