Wax drawing,
Wax drawing, according to my first inspirations, has always made me feel cheerful, independent and free.
My hand to her liking, draws a fine line, a thick line which touchs the fabric like a stroke or a cut. The silk bends or screams under the brush. Colors pots get out of the drawers.
The workshop shrouds in a sweet hot bee wax smelling.
My practice of geometrical work could be compared to the barre exercises of the ballerina, to work with the arpeggio repeated by the flautist, to the soprano’s vocal cords that she warmed up, to the gymnast stretching on the ground, to the soliloquy repeated by the comedian. This exercise, clearly indispensable and lonely, can’t be reduced only to this.
It is instinctively vital to me. The mosaic I compose makes me travel through my memories or through my dreams. I am immediately in Damas, in the Omeyyades’ mosque, I walk into Aya Sofia and Chora, I stand open-mouthed in front of Petra, I admire byzantine Saint Vital outfits in Ravenna, I spend the afternoon in the Majorelle’s garden in Marrakech or drink a tea at the Nattes café in Sidi Bou Saïd, sit down on Rome’s forum, stroll in Pompei and Athens or stumble over outdoor mosaic in Thuburbo Majus.
I get out of my dream and come back home through the South East part of France, the Herault, Saint-Jean de Fos and its pottermakers.
Last or current checks, made of stone, enamel, glass past, half precious stone, ceramic or pebble, all of them imperfect and unique, you fill me with wonder.
I skip from one to another, to go through the time.Claude MIQUEL
December 2011