J’aime l’automne, cette triste saison va bien aux souvenirs. Quand les arbres n’ont plus de feuilles, quand le ciel conserve encore au crépuscule la teinte rousse qui dore l’herbe fanée, il est doux de regarder s’éteindre tout ce qui naguère brûlait encore en vous.
– Novembre, Gustave Flaubert
Je jouis infiniment Je la beauté douce et tranquille de cette fin d’été, de ce début d’automne. Il y a, en cette saison, un parfum de mélancolie émouvante, suave, dont je me sens profondément imprégné. J’ai l‘impression qu’en cette saison quasiment crépusculaire, les âmes sont meilleures et les cœurs plus sensibles… Et pourtant, on continue à se battre.
– Paroles de Poilus: Lettres et carnets du front, lettre 2, 5 octobre 1917, Henry Lange
“If we could walk inside our own horizon, the world would appear as closed off as a cave, as reflective as a mirror, and as ephemeral as light. For me, the horizon is not a line, it’s a dimension. Questioning one’s own horizon requires us to question linearity and create a new horizon.” – Olafur Eliasson on Inside the Horizon at Fondation Louis Vuitton.
“I have always thought “Twombly” ought to be (if it isn’t already) a verb, as in twombly: (vt.): to hover thoughtfully over a surface, tracing glyphs and graphs of mischievous suggestiveness, periodically touching down amidst discharges of passionate intensity. Or, then again, perhaps a noun, as in twombly (n.): A line with a mind of its own.” – Simon Schama.
“Thanks to art, instead of seeing one world only, our own, we see that world multiply itself and we have at our disposal as many worlds as there are original artists, worlds more different one from the other than those which revolve in infinite space, worlds which, centuries after the extinction of the fire from which their light first emanated, whether it is called Rembrandt or Vermeer, send us still each one its special radiance.” ― Marcel Proust
A photo diary of a week I spent in Amsterdam in spring xx
Annette Messager is one of French art’s most respected international figures. Sculpting an eccentric, dreamlike path through and around the Villa Medici, Messager shows that for her places are linked to the body and to skin. “All my work,” she has said, “speaks only of the body.”
Her creations are built around women’s everyday existences, exploring their rebellions, their fears, and their fantasies with the help of scraps of fabric, color pencils, doctored images, and a jumble of nightmarish chimeras involving steel spikes, dolls, and hooded soft toys. – Villa Medici.