Simon Feydieu _ Waze Boogie Woogie
Opening : Friday April 26 from 6pm
Exhibition running : April 26 - 28 2019 / Fri - Sun 4-7pm
A homy hotel
My name is Henri. I live in a hotel.
It is noon. The wheater is nice outside. The tree in the garden has almost lost all its leaves, teared away by the wind. The sky was clear last night. I looked at the shadows of the branches on the wall for hours. I have no Egyptian curtain in the room.
On the floor, many gouaches are spread on the grid of the tiles: here lies the leftovers of my collage. From yesterday, from last week, from last month or the last century. The shapes are strange. Strange because I can not remember cut them. In Art, time is a story where the waves look all the same sometimes, mixing and covering up. These papers do not belong to me anymore.
My studio is a place where I live, where I work. A place where people come and go. A memory place. It does not belong to me either. It is a hotel room where I felt enough comfortable to forget it was a hotel.
A Hotel room. It is a place where you can choose who you are. For a while. Being gentle or horrible. Discreet or noisy. unfaithfull or ascetic. A tourist or a professional. An idler or an artist. Rarely both.
In which room are we? In which city? My memory is fading away. I am over 150 years old.
My sight is different. I can not make out shapes from counterforms, leftovers from collages, my studies from my wall paintings. I see surfaces and colors. Are they paintings or collages? Backgrounds and figures confuse me and my head is spinning when I look at these walls, with all its layers and colors.
My face is symetrical in a mirror. Like my bed, my stick, my wheeling chair. That does not include my artworks, my walls or my plants. In this studio, what is out of me, out of the direct extension of my body, is asymetrical, does not repeat itself identically.
I am hungry.
I ring the bell so Eliza will bring me coffee, eggs and toasts.
I ring the bell so Paul and Pierre will put me in my wheelchair.
What am I going to do today? Get out in the corridor? Working? Get back to bed?
I ring the bell again.
"Pierre*! Paper and scissors!"
Simon Feydieu, 2018
*Pierre means also rock in french.