Before the first stroke, there is the paper. I look at its
colour, feel its texture, observe the light as it
falls upon it.
The fog, the cold, the damp and the paper
slow down the movement. Nothing can be rushed.
Drawing then becomes a process of discovering a
territory. Every sheet of paper has its own texture, its own
resistance, its softness, its colour, its light.
Even before I begin, I look.
This morning, the world is veiled. A thick whiteness
hovers above the trees—neither fog nor smoke, a suspended substance that blurs the distances. A very fine rain drifts through the air without
almost ever falling. The sky is white, grey, dense. The
light strains the eyes; the cotton has lost its
warmth. A few crows break the silence;
Mozart’s Requiem suddenly seems more alive
than the landscape.
The cold seeps into my body; it slows down
my movements. The damp creeps up silently. It
glides over my skin, wraps itself round my neck,
creeps down to my hands. It eventually takes hold of
every one of my movements. The whole world
seems to be breathing slowly.
Then I open a sheet of paper.
Each sheet of paper has its own way of receiving
the line.
Some feel smooth beneath my hand, others
grip the pencil more firmly. No two whites
are quite the same. There are whites that are
luminous, others more muted; some surfaces are
matt, others absorb more
light.
The differences are almost imperceptible.
Yet, even before the first stroke, they are already there.
I look at the hue. I feel the texture beneath my
fingers. I observe the light on the sheet. The paper
is never a blank surface. Its texture, its
colour, its relief are already there.
I think of walking. I do not place my foot in the same way on soft earth, a stony path or a perfectly smooth surface. My body recognises the terrain and adapts its stride.
Faced with the paper, my body does the same.
The texture alters where I place my weight. The hue influences the
colours I am about to apply. The light is already a part of what I see. My body perceives these
differences and my movement adjusts accordingly.
I can use the same pencil, intend to draw the same line: it will never be quite the same.
So I adapt my movement.
I slow down, press harder, lighten my touch.
Sometimes I let the pencil glide; sometimes I
guide it through the paper’s resistance.
I discover the terrain as I draw.
The paper is no longer the only place where the
drawing appears. It becomes a territory that my
body is learning to navigate.
Sometimes I’d like to go faster. The paper prevents me from doing so; it teaches me its patience.
The paper doesn’t change. My body, however, finds a way to move forward.
So I slow down with it.
Drawing becomes a way of moving forward across this
territory. Each line carries something of the
path it has encountered.
The final result rarely matters to me. It is always
less rich than the landscapes that have
passed before my eyes.
What precedes the gesture is almost
imperceptible: a shade of white, a grain,
a light, a resistance beneath my fingers.
Attention begins before the drawing.
I observe the territory before placing the
first stroke upon it.
