This is Clémence Trossevin's second exhibition at SLOW Galerie, after "Ici, l'ombre est bleue" in 2020 rooted in the Cévennes region, where she is originally from, recounted river baths, endless card games and afternoon siestas, time slowly passing.... From September 07 to October 10 Clémence exhibits "Les passages", a series of some thirty gouache paintings inspired by her regular migrations between her native South and Paris, where she has been living for several years. The artist invites us to move from one universe to another, from the exuberant nature of the Cévennes to the cobblestones of Paris.
From one stroll to another, from one world to another, with elegance and an exquisite delicacy. With elegance and exquisite delicacy, Clémence's strokes the atmosphere of each place, the soft, subdued light of the forests becomes implacable and incisive in the city, the shadows, generous there are shorter here, and the vibrant, flickering line flickering line becomes sharp and precise. Over there, everything pushes for adventure. There, everything pushes for adventure, "nature seems to be in a rage to overturn what man's efforts have achieved"(1), old gates and car wrecks are covered in a blooming debandade. In Paris, nature is framed, everything is ordered, meticulously maintained, organized around the immense architectural and cultural heritage of the City of Light. You can seek out nature at the flower market on the Carreau du Temple or during the opening hours of public parks and gardens. To settle in Paris is to accept the loss of a part of yourself, and to make do with what the capital has to offer, seeking out corners of greenery, softness and comfort. Clémence Trossevin captures these small miracles in her drawings, the discreet poetry of Paris as a passageway to the Cévennes, a red oilskin on a rainy day, scaffolding that seems to soar into the fire of the sky, the sensual statue of Maillol that secretly comes to life in the Tuileries Gardens...
(1) Zola, "La faute de l'abbé Mourret"
"The story begins in the south of France, feet in the water. On the other side of the shore, legs protrude from a taut hammock. It's warm and nature is everywhere. Here, walks take on the air of pilgrimages, forgotten ruins, abandoned 2CVs, closed gates... Time passes and weeds cover everything...
The vacations back to the capital, passing through the North.
Paris is immense and sometimes too small. Epochs pile up and the sky seems far away and the sky seems far away. Everything changes, everything moves, Paris never sleeps. Yet all it takes is a break in the Tuileries, a siesta in the Buttes Chaumont Buttes Chaumont or a last ray of sunshine on the canal, the pace for the pace to finally slow down. On a patch of wall or a corner of asphalt, weeds manage to make a place for themselves here too. Let's follow the paths."
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