Encounter with frederiquek
Standing there, in front of her paintings, people talk to me, people talk to be about them, and it’s immensely embarrassing.
They tell me she is alone and that she paints locked away in her music. They tell me that she has her reasons. Deep ones. Her story...It’s no surprise.
What she does is take you into her intimate war. She throws you straight into a cyclone, into the silence of its eye. A clinical eye. She throws a raw piece of the world in your face. Because you are a gentleman the resonance makes your clothes disintegrate. And in these conditions, caught between two glacis where you are her volatile lover, the animals around who still dare to speak to you – rubbing their word up against you – are wretched voyeurs.
They say she doesn’t take herself seriously. Apparently she has sometimes even forgotten or destroyed some paintings...This infuriates some people. A metal taste rises up, my teeth screech, I tremble with despairing anger. Why on earth shouldn’t she be able to! They’re not children, they’re paintings, moments, air breathed in, tainted, fleeting. You should be grateful just to catch a faint whiff of them.
All these paintings are frozen at the exact moment of their rupture. Where Picasso made it worse, she stops. It’s her essence of a muse, the sensual authority which blends into eroticism. Definitely no commissions. No series...maybe. But cycles and seasons. Bilal’s winter blue-grey; Giverny’s spring green; summer transparencies; feline fire of autumn and so forth according to the will of the tides.
It is the work of her companion to hold it back. He would like to leave people some openings, some opportunities. A ravishing homage while he navigates blindly. Because a slightly genuine artist has nothing to express: he creates a way of grasping on. He opens a window where the wall seemed impenetrable. An unprecedented framework.
Surveying these works, I was a few minutes from a mystery. Within reach of its substance. And if I’d stretched out my hand, it would have vanished. Something, of course, of woman, i.e. death and arrogance. That Deleuzian thought about complaint came to mind, of being confronted with something “too big for me”. The complaint purified, stimulated by the painting. And these over-sized haughty ladies, from the fashion world, from the frills of Lautrec to the disillusioned urchins of Calvin Klein, whose eyes of shards of glass assail you, deposit you there, disembowelled. These emerald to purple sprays and streaks which leave you disconcerted – don’t look any further – it is your blood on their skin. It leaves them neither hot not cold, they are already elsewhere. Their pop art star faces grabbed you; at the very same time their bodies vanished. What’s more they were never there, never given to you, or to anyone. What you have left is a draped shadow, a meander of a geisha, a pair of unbuttoned jeans. And also, this pastel, sensual ingénue who has already assuaged your heart. After this profusion, a stolen perfume, which I still carry with me like a layer of fleshy ochre.
I didn’t meet FrédériqueK…
Tristan Bacro

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