Description
THE CROSSING – COMPOSITION
April 2024, Paris
One month after The Revenant, in April two thousand twenty-four, as spring was truly settling in now, as the warmth was returning, as the light was lengthening, I painted The Crossing, a composition that explored the theme: crossing, advancing, moving across unstable terrain but in a more figurative way, more narrative perhaps, showing not just an abstract silhouette in movement but a more complete scene, a landscape of crossing, a human figure that walked, that advanced through a space that was both concrete and abstract, a space that could be a real landscape, a road, a desert, a plain or a metaphorical space, time, life, exile and this ambiguity was intentional, essential, because crossing was both physical and metaphorical, we crossed geographical spaces and we crossed periods of life, we crossed cities and we crossed trials, we crossed streets.
The figure in this painting walked from left to right, exactly as in all Western visual conventions where movement from left to right means advancing, progressing, moving forward, and this figure walked with determination, with visible effort, not running like The Runner, my painting from two thousand four, not climbing like The Ascension, my painting from two thousand six, but simply walking, one foot in front of the other, regularly, obstinately, walking as metaphor of endurance, of perseverance, of the capacity to continue even when one is tired, even when one doesn’t see the end of the path, even when one no longer knows very well why one walks, one walks anyway, one advances anyway, one crosses anyway, because that is living, that is existing, that is resisting, putting one foot in front of the other, day after day, year after year, decade after decade, crossing time, crossing life, without necessarily arriving anywhere, without necessarily reaching a goal, but crossing anyway, advancing anyway, continuing anyway.
And the landscape that this figure crossed was ambiguous, indefinite, I had painted zones of colors, passages of shadow and light, spaces that could be paths or obstacles, openings or closures, creating this sensation that crossing was not following a clear, obvious, marked path, but was constantly navigating in uncertainty, in ambiguity, never really knowing if one was going in the right direction, if one was really advancing or if one was going in circles, if one was approaching something or if one was moving away from it, this fundamental uncertainty of exile, of precarious life, of marginal existence where one never has clear confirmations that one is doing the right thing, that one is on the right path, that one will arrive somewhere, one walks in the fog, one crosses in uncertainty, one advances without really knowing where one is going, but one advances anyway, one crosses anyway, because one has no other choice, because to stop is to die, because life itself is a crossing that only stops when one dies.
April two thousand twenty-four. Spring. Light. The warmth returning. And I was painting this crossing, this figure that walked from left to right through an ambiguous landscape, and I recognized that it was me again, another metaphorical self-portrait, another way of saying “this is what I have been doing for twenty years, I cross, I walk, I advance, one foot in front of the other, day after day, without really knowing where I am going, without really arriving anywhere, but advancing anyway, crossing anyway, continuing anyway, because that is my life, that is my exile, that is my existence, an endless crossing, a perpetual movement, an obstinate march through a landscape that constantly changes but that remains fundamentally the same, a landscape of uncertainty, of ambiguity, of precarity, but I cross it anyway, I continue walking, I continue advancing, twenty years already, and perhaps twenty more years, and perhaps until my death, always crossing, always walking, always advancing, without ever really arriving, without ever really reaching, but crossing anyway, that is my victory, that is my dignity, that is my obstinacy—I cross, I continue, I walk, one foot in front of the other, always, despite everything, to the very end.”
The Crossing. April two thousand twenty-four. The figure that walks from left to right. The ambiguous landscape it crosses. The permanent uncertainty of direction. The obstinacy to continue anyway. Walking as life. Crossing as existence. Movement as resistance. And me painting this scene recognizing that it was my simplest self-portrait, the most direct, the truest perhaps I am this figure that crosses, that walks, that advances, without really knowing where I am going, without really arriving anywhere, but walking anyway, crossing anyway, continuing anyway, twenty years already, and probably to the very end, until I can no longer walk, until my legs no longer carry me, until I finally fall, and even then perhaps I would still crawl, I would still continue, because that is my nature, that is my destiny, that is my life: crossing, always, eternally, obstinately, until the end.
