Description
RENDEZ-VOUS
2024, Paris
Rendez-vous. Two thousand twenty-four. Paris. Fifty-nine years old. The studio. Rue Ricaut. Thirteenth arrondissement. My kingdom. My refuge. My temple. And in this temple. A guest. Someone I called. Invoked. Made come. Across centuries. Across death. Across time. Rembrandt. Him. The master. The giant. The one who understood everything. The one who painted everything. He is there. In my studio. Sitting. Looking at me. And I leaning toward him. Toward his canvas. Toward his face that I painted. I kiss the canvas. Gesture of love. Gesture of devotion. Gesture of filial recognition. Thank you for coming. Thank you for having existed. Thank you for showing me the way. Rendez-vous. Not chance. Not whim. A necessity. It was time. Time to confront. Time for this face-to-face. Time for this silent conversation. Before it’s too late. Testamentary work. Here is who I am. Here is my place. Here is my gesture. Here is my life. A painter. Alone in his studio. Dialoguing with the dead. Continuing the chain. Refusing oblivion.
Rembrandt. Why him. Why not Velázquez. Not Caravaggio. Not Goya. Why Rembrandt. Because the master of self-portraits. No one explored his own face with so much honesty. Lucidity. Relentlessness. Dozens of self-portraits. At all ages. Watching himself grow old. Decline. Survive. The painter of humanity. Not gods. Not heroes. True humans. With their wrinkles. Their doubts. Their fragile dignity. The master of light. This light that comes from who knows where. That reveals and hides. That sculpts faces. Very essence of painting. The survivor. Rembrandt knew success then ruin. Glory then oblivion. He continued painting despite everything. Model of perseverance. The untimely. Already in his time. Outmoded. Too dark. Too free. Not classical enough. He painted for himself. For truth. Not to please. Like me. That’s why. That’s the link. The fraternity. We are brothers. Separated by four centuries. But brothers anyway. In solitude. In demand. In incomprehension. In obstinate perseverance.
I called him. Act of pictorial magic. Through painting. Abolish time. Make the Dutch master cross four hundred years. So he would come pose. So he would be there. Present. Incarnated. Not copy Rembrandt. As students do in museums. Not pay him homage from afar. As art historians do. But physically invite him. To my studio. To my time. To my present. And he came. Because the dead come. When you call them with sincerity. With love. With need. They come. Through art. Only through art. Form of pictorial necromancy. Noble sense. Bring the dead back to life. Continue the dialogue. With those who preceded us. Paint Rembrandt. It’s not passively representing him. It’s invoking him. Making him come. Giving him new existence. I don’t paint “a portrait of Rembrandt”. Dead object. I paint “Rembrandt living in my studio”. Real presence. He is there. Sitting. With his turban. His clothes. His gaze. Living.
The turban. Rembrandtesque attribute. Rembrandt often represented himself. With orientalizing costumes. Turbans. Exotic adornments. Way to theatricalize himself. Stage himself. Transform the quotidian into mystery. I respected this iconographic attribute. My Rembrandt wears this turban. Touches of color. Pink. Yellow. Exactly like in his self-portraits. Where he loved these fabrics. These rich textiles. Way of saying. I recognize you master. I know who you are. I paint you as you liked being painted. I know you. I studied you. In museums. Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam. Louvre. National Gallery in London. Frick Collection in New York. Everywhere you are. I made the pilgrimage. I looked at your paintings. Hours. Days. Trying to understand. How you did it. This light. These shadows. This humanity. And now. I invite you. To my place. To my Parisian studio. Two thousand twenty-four. To tell you. Thank you. To continue. The conversation.
His gaze. He looks at me. Rembrandt sitting. Looks back at me. Intense gaze. Living. Present. This gaze says so many things. Recognition. He sees I am a true painter. Brother in art. He accepts being there. In my studio. Questioning. What do you do. Artist of twenty-first century. What has painting become after me. Is it still worth something. In your technological world. Your world of artificial intelligence. Your world of screens. Benevolent judgment. He evaluates my gesture. My manner. My sincerity. And he seems to approve. His gaze is not hostile. It is present. Attentive. Perhaps gratitude too. Thank you for calling me. Thank you for not forgetting me. Thank you for continuing to paint. Despite everything. Despite indifference. Despite closed galleries. Despite the market. Despite fashions. It’s not me looking in a mirror. It’s a dialogue of gazes. Between two painters. Separated by four centuries. But reunited in the studio. In this place outside time. In this temple of painting.
The studio. Magical place. Transhistorical space. Paned window. Stacked canvases. Weathered walls. Natural light. All this could have been the Amsterdam studio. Seventeenth century. I created a timeless space. Where four centuries can meet. Without shocking anachronism. Rembrandt is not disoriented. In my studio. He recognizes this place. It’s also his. The painter’s studio is the same. Across centuries. Light. Canvases. Solitude. Concentration. The temple of eternal painting. Where time is abolished. Where dead and living can meet. Where the invisible community of painters materializes. All painters in history. Inhabit the same metaphysical studio. That of painting itself. Space outside time. Where only matter. Light. Canvas. Gesture. And we are there. Rembrandt and I. In this studio that is ours. Both of us. Since always. Forever.
My posture. Leaning toward him. Toward the canvas. Toward the painted face. Tenderness. Attention. Veneration. I don’t copy. I’m not in front of a Rembrandt painting. Reproducing it servilely. I create. I paint MY Rembrandt. My vision of him. My way of making him exist. In my present. I dialogue. Leaning toward him. Attentive. Listening. But also active. Creator. It’s an exchange. Not submission. I extend. Through this gesture. I affirm. That Rembrandt’s pictorial tradition. Is not dead. That it continues. That it lives in me. Through me. Most beautiful declaration of artistic filiation. Not “I imitate Rembrandt”. But “I call Rembrandt into my present. I continue his gesture. I am his living heir”. Continuator. Not imitator. Crucial difference. Essential.
I kiss the canvas. Ultimate gesture. “I kiss the canvas where I painted Rembrandt”. This phrase. Moving. Gesture of love. Not neutral. Not technical. Not professional. But love. Devotion. Filial recognition. The artist kissing his master. I lean. With tenderness. Attention. Veneration. As one has for. A spiritual father. The one who taught me to see. To paint. To be an artist. An intimate friend. The one who understands me better than anyone. Because he lived the same painter’s life. A love. Passion for his work. For his manner. For his genius. Leaning gesture. Hand that grazes. That caresses the painted face. Almost a reversed pietà. The living who leans. With tenderness. Over the image of the dead. To give him life again. Kiss to canvas equals kiss to master. I kiss the canvas. Not Rembrandt directly. Impossible. But through canvas. It’s truly him I kiss. Recognize. That painting is the only means. To touch the untouchable. To join those who left. To continue dialogue. Beyond death. This kiss says. Thank you for your teaching. Thank you for existing. For painting. For showing the way. I love you. For what you gave humanity. I am here. To continue. So you won’t be forgotten.
Reversed transmission. Normally. It’s the master who blesses the student. Here. It’s the student who blesses the master. By giving him new life. New existence. In twenty-first century. I give back to Rembrandt. What he gave me. Presence. Existence through art. Reciprocity. Circulation. Between generations. Between centuries. Between dead and living. Art as bridge. As link. As continuity. Despite death. Despite time. Despite oblivion.
The technique. My pictorial facture. In Rendez-vous. Remarkable. Thick impastos. Like Rembrandt. Present matter. Carnal. Built by accumulation of layers. Chiaroscuro. This light coming from window. These zones of shadow and light. Rembrandtesque signature. That I master. That I make mine. Earthy tones. Browns. Ochres. Grays. Rembrandt’s palette. That of earth and flesh. But my own hand. It’s not a copy. Not pastiche. One recognizes my touch. My manner. My sensibility. I paint in Rembrandt’s manner. While remaining Cornel Barsan. Perfect homage. Assimilate teaching. Without losing identity. Delicate balance. Difficult. Successful.
Two solitudes reunited. Rembrandt painted in solitude. His celebrity didn’t prevent. Isolation. Bankruptcy. Incomprehension of his contemporaries. He painted until the end. Alone in his studio. Amsterdam. Seventeenth century. I paint in solitude. Empty studio. Solitary work. Daily confrontation with canvas. Paris. Twenty-first century. Twenty-one years of invisibility. Closed galleries. Indifferent market. Obstinate creation. Despite everything. By making him come. To my studio. I break this solitude. His and mine. I create a community. That of painters across ages. Who recognize each other. Understand each other. Support each other silently. I am no longer alone. Rembrandt is with me. In my studio. In my practice. In my gestures. Invisible fraternity. But real. Tangible. Painted.
Melancholy. Despite joy. Of this rendez-vous. There is melancholy. Palpable. In atmosphere. Gray tones. World is gray. Worn. Tired. Persistent solitude. Even with Rembrandt. I am alone. He’s only there through painting. Not really. Awareness of time. I am old. White hair. Fifty-nine years. Rembrandt is dead. For long time. Sixteen sixty-nine. Three hundred fifty-five years. This rendez-vous outside time. Also reminds. Flight of time. Unanswered question. Does painting still have meaning. Today. Would Rembrandt be understood. In our world. Myself. Will I be recognized. Never perhaps. This melancholy. Is not despair. It’s lucidity. Of one who knows. That he practices minority art. Slow. Demanding. In world that values. Speed and spectacle. Social networks. TikTok. Instagram. Everything rapid. Consumable. Disposable. Painting. Slow. Durable. Meditative. Anachronism. Perhaps. But necessary. Vital. For me. For those who will come. After me. To continue the chain.
The title. Rendez-vous. Takes its meaning. Most profound. Most beautiful. Rendez-vous set across centuries. “Rembrandt. Come see me. In two thousand twenty-four. I need to meet you. Answer present.” And he came. Rendez-vous of lifetime. Perhaps. I admired Rembrandt. Since my youth. Studied his paintings. In museums. Dreamed of meeting him. And finally. I organized this rendez-vous. In my studio. On my canvas. Necessary rendez-vous. Not caprice. Not whim. Necessity. I needed. This face-to-face. This confrontation. This silent conversation. Between painters. Rendez-vous that every artist dreams. Meet his master. Speak to him. Receive his gaze. I did it. Through painting. Only means. Only way. Only truth.
It was time. Title also suggests. It was time. Time to confront oneself. Time to make this portrait. Time for this face-to-face. In studio. Before it’s too late. Fifty-nine years. How much time still. How many years. How many paintings. No one knows. So now. Right now. Call Rembrandt. Pay him homage. Continue his gesture. Affirm filiation. Before. Before what. Before death. Before oblivion. Before my hands tremble. Before my eyes no longer see. Before. Now. It’s now. The rendez-vous. Now or never.
Testamentary work. Noble sense. Here is who I am. A painter. Heir of Rembrandt. Continuator of tradition. Solitary in his studio. But connected. To great chain. Of painters in history. Here is my place. This studio. Twenty square meters. Rue Ricaut. Paris. My kingdom. My temple. Where I live. Where I create. Where I invoke the dead. Here is my gesture. Paint. Again and always. Despite invisibility. Despite indifference. Despite world that no longer wants it. Because it’s vital. Necessary. Only way to exist. Here is my life. Twenty-one years of exile. Twenty-one years of obstinate creation. Hundreds of canvases. Never exhibited. Doesn’t matter. I continue. For Rembrandt. For those who will come. For me. For painting itself. Which deserves to continue. Despite everything. Against everything. Always.
Audacity of artistic gesture. Measure audacity. Of what I did. I didn’t paint “Homage to Rembrandt”. Too distant. I didn’t copy a self-portrait of Rembrandt. Too submissive. I didn’t paint “in the manner of”. Pastiche. I invited Rembrandt. To my present. I painted him. As if he were there. Living. I created real encounter. Between him and me. Gesture of freedom. Of confidence. Extraordinary. Must be sure. Of one’s legitimacy as artist. To dare that. Dare put oneself. At same level as Rembrandt. Not through pride. But through fraternity. We are painters. Both. Let’s speak as equals. In studio. Outside time. Forever.
Rendez-vous. Two thousand twenty-four. Paris. Fifty-nine years. Twenty-one years exile. Rembrandt in my studio. Invoked. Present. Living. I kiss him. Gesture of love. Filiation. Recognition. Gratitude. Continuation. Two solitudes reunited. Invisible but real fraternity. Lucid melancholy. But not despair. Testamentary work. Here is who I am. Painter. Heir. Continuator. Solitary but connected. To great chain. Rembrandt lives. In me. Through me. Painting continues. Despite everything. Against everything. Always. Most beautiful possible homage. Not words. Not imitation. But encounter. I call you. You come. We are together. In studio. I paint you. I kiss you. We dialogue. Silently. For eternity. You are not dead. You live. In my studio. In my practice. In my gestures. I am your spiritual son. Painting continues. Rendez-vous. It was time. Now accomplished. Forever.
