Still lifes, in homage to strangers, dedicated to my muse.
From one second-hand dealer to another, from the flea market in Saint-Ouen to the garage sale in Saint-Germain-en-Laye, I look for and never fail to find an object that speaks to me, the image of which I immediately visualize I’ll do it later, barely back in the studio, before I even take the time to have lunch. It can be a worn out tool, a broken toy, a kitchen utensil that has been eaten away by rust, a statue without a nose or an ear or cracked and badly glued together. It can be a vase or a fork, sometimes with lamb. It’s never the object alone that challenges me, makes me dream, but it’s its history betrayed by its condition, its wear, the bad treatment or the care with which it has been used, preserved.
This music sheet, in bad shape, torn, is for me, immediately, a young woman who plays the piano in a room plunged into darkness, with half-open windows, curtains only a little air of this month of July animates gently; and this wooden horse has his right leg broken and badly glued together, I see him fall from the shelf where an alley cat chasing a newly arrived sokoke jostled it.
And I see clearly in front of the object I’m looking for by turning it from all sides the best way to catch the light, even before buying it, the image I’m going to make of it, the objects I’m going to associate with it , the wink that I will address, by a sometimes clear, often incomprehensible combination, to my muse who, smiling, will say to me softly: Come, I have prepared a white tea and a pound cake for us.
Jean Turco
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