Himmelarschundzwirn, 7. 9. – 28. 10.


It looks like a volcano that is full of not only lava but noxious fumes, pustules, delighted outbursts of the visual arts sort, sexual liberties, and images both coded and recognizable.

In this bluish painting, contrary or complementary forms are at work. To my eye, it is initially a vision of chaos. Impossible to know. Predict. Discover. Impossible to be sure of what I am seeing or follow a coherent journey. That heat is bubbling. It seems both purulent and limpid, almost crystalline. It is obviously filled with forces that are trying to come together for a battle that goes beyond a simple play of forms.

This painting is made up of a core that is coiled in a cocoon. Tugged this way and that by white and black, clinging to shapes that are themselves struck dumb by so many forces tormenting them from within, the cocoon emphasizes a trembling that is perceptible to the naked eye. The trembling is such that the shapes collide, sag and announce a collapse. I sense the explosion of this envelope, swirling and circling before the viewer of the painting. I am stupefied. My eyes are burning from looking, seeking, being surprised by the sequence of the brushstrokes as much as by the limits of forms that are impossible to grasp.

I make out references, to art history, myths, or human history and that which is popular in us. I recognize the learning, what is said and left unsaid. I look at the painting again.

Elisabeth is painting an orgy on the point of exploding in my face. Perhaps this orgy foretold, this magma ready to explode, won’t end in bloodshed. Perhaps the whole thing will vanish into thin air.

With uncommon brutality, she paints my chaos. On what side will this irresolute nascent disorder burst out?

This turmoil fills me with joy, leaves me intoxicated with hypotheses and uncertainties. My gaze is wholly there. My sensations struggle to keep up. I make associations, I give up, I begin all over again, I get lost.

I see, I make out things, I know and I don’t know. I search. I don’t see all the links, I don’t really understand those that I spot, given what is there in the painting is full. Given these forces as a whole are indistinct. Given the viewer that I am stands at the center of a painting that will only find a synthesis on the condition that I forge it myself.

Luc Andrié

Texte extrait du livre Totchic – Elisabeth Llach  Till Schaap Edition – L’APAGE - 2016