Claude Chaussard will rely on bare paper. If there is one truth to say, it is this one who will say it. In his silent way. The painting that dares to bend in this truth will also have to be naked, stripped of any pigment. Reduced to his medium, the medium of all Western painting since Van Eyck until the twentieth century: raw oil.
To the pacification of the space whose paper saturated the air, to the "spacification" one could say, oil brings the appeasement of the time. She seduces the paper, invests it, crosses it with each touch. She exonerates him from his sad support function. Sing it. But its permanent absorption of the light from which henceforth no reflective pigment protects it is for it mortal danger. She gives herself completely without prudence. With time, we see it fade and run out until almost disappeared. When by the light all is consumed, in the darkness it is reborn and is alive. The dark, in the long run, resurrects it. Immortality of art. It resurfaces in its seemingly irreducible essence. Rejaunit, rejuvenated, finds his singular present. The viewer of the work attends a show still unknown in art.
Space and time are here, with oil and paper the only elements of implementation of this unique work. Let us remember, however, that the emotion that art gives us is never in the order of space or of time. She is a vertigo and an intensity.
No trace of gesture. This line is not "drawn". It is slammed with the quarry cord. Projected as archery. Dry blue velvet powder which persists to slam beyond its projection. Which does not enter into any chromatic relationship, that is to say in any story. An intransitive, uncompromising blue that says nothing, that is. Or the sheet is covered with lines.
White paper is only the target here. It does not maintain a true plastic relationship with blue. It is only the soundboard of the snap. This absolute blue lives only from its own digging. He lives his life in the light. If one accepts to live with him, one reaches, like a boon, the white of the blue, what the dyers call the flower. In the preparation of the blue pastel from the leaves of guesde, this flower, a white foam on the edges of the tank, indicates that the blue is at its acme. The long attention to the work allows to reach this point and makes this meeting a spiritual exercise.
The painter's intervention after a long meditation is brief, meticulous, absolute. But here is the mystery: this slam as a product in the depths of eternity, will always resonate, will eternally be part of the work that one should even call "blue snap".