Oil on canvas

210 cm x 160 cm


Jérôme Karsenti ©


I painted all day, I don't particularly enjoy the nights, I'm impatient to continue the work. Maybe I'm off, maybe not. What am I afraid of? I am in a piece of machinery. Only daylight matters. 5 p.m. in the middle of winter. 3°C. I can no longer wash myself, or go out, it's so difficult and yet, I’m drawn, I am outside, I am taken by this canvas, perhaps it is the promised canvas of all the others. I heat myself with wood. I put a huge log in the fireplace, perhaps to celebrate the painting I'm going to finish tomorrow. What am I afraid of? What ? Money? Ah I know all the values, I know my brushes by heart, their shapes, wear. I don't know myself so much the better, it's this canvas that obsesses me, the soul, it's a big word, we don't care, what mechanism is made of the illegible, or the invisible, or the illusion or the unlivable. I'm approaching quickly. I am certain within 10 centuries of millions of years. The march is imprecise. Better this something than rancidity, coldness, selfishness, and why not basically this whole thing in wandering, I feed on it, I who am an invertebrate, I eat bread cooked in the stove, quinoa, buckwheat, chestnut and poppyseed oil with my hands. The canvas does not have its smoky taste. Perhaps I should look elsewhere, I am so close to the goal and yet everything is moving away, I am incorrigible:

What is the heart of man made of, the sacred, I am in the mountains, I recognize, I recognize you, swirling matter, the ink, I recognize you above all, the soul, no matter how I name you, I recognize the center of oneself which explodes in the myriad of feelings, I close myself to everything that is other, what closes is my subject, how the light is struck by the stone and all these others are scattered centers, at the heart of my own activity, I build the centers, my own birth which is followed by its death, infinite, at the center of oneself is this marvelous, times which are not exteriors, what I see, the journeys, the Temple of millions of years of Ramses II, these wonders come from oneself, and it is the leaven of man to be united, this whirlwind is my celestial, these tearings of consciousnesses, my divine, my movement, my own light, I bow it before you, oh my celestial, my daughter, I am an actor, you are my actress, my light, just as much as you are my nightmother, it is there, this font, fonts of scriptures, foundations, I am only you, impatient while you are me in sweat. It is the link of illusion between exterior and wherexterior, here is this work, the fan of the soul, this cogwheeling. I recognize you right here, you have to find the provinces of words, their mismatches, their inverses, the heart of the connections, come on, one more fear of work on this canvas, listen, I'll listen to you. I put one knee on the ground, I pose, I don't know, The surroundings are silent, the color is emerging, we play in the material, where do you find my joy, my cats, the light behaves like this in meows, it is a game with some Land foods, to take them to travel to its other stars. Antrez! Has never been so clairvoyant. With both knees on the ground, in this cathedral, I lie down and become the paving stone of the depths of the mischievous spirit. Oh, I see you Grizli, den of sound devouring. You're hungry...I'm here! Our benevolent arrhythmic sums, far from the rigid stunners of the independents, whatever they are in the granular interstices of the stone. How necessary are the hearts of stones of invertebrates! Inverse monsoon rains in Kerala.

Journal of Jérôme Karsenti, 2023 .. . . ..

The Palace of Millions of Seconds

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