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James Coignard's painting has long been
nourished at a well-spring of comfort. Today it has found peace,
is almost serene in appearance, determined at all costs not to
swerve one jot from its central theme. It has advanced beyond the
debris of forms, subjects or compositions, beyond the daring which
always attends the birth of a new logos, now it celebrates a rediscovered
order, a calm patiently built up step by step.
In doing this it sets our minds at rest;
without understatement or undue fuss it is able to convey, repeat
or confirm its message - in short to be concerned only with itself.
These masks, the old familiar faces, have
today become ageless and no longer need to inform us of the fact,
being as far removed from the memory of their birth as from any
risk of annihilation. Their battles are over, they have no new
worlds to conquer. They are their own justification. They have
found their proper niche, while the canvas revolves about them
as from a rough, pulverised space, and other more fleeting outlines
grow in number, other idols creating a needed interlude in the
story, to affirm time and again a preconceived idea which has never
been gainsaid - the idea of coexistence.
The space in which everything has to be
said is bounded by four wide strokes - a bold red blot, the mat
ochre of the walls; a forest of graffiti bursts open showing traces
of a thousand accumulated transitions, the basic mosaic unfolds
itself in the distance in subdued scratches.
The riddle grows harder, and also the refusal
to exclude. The ambiguity of an immanent. being whose strength
and weakness are forever complementary must at all costs be preserved.
And this statement is not accompanied by
any need for an explanation. There is no accomplice, no reference
system. Man and matter, a king of fatality and the comforting unforeseen
- the pulverised scraps of a dual truth give nourishment to each
other. This painting has now reached the emphatic serenity of renewed
conviction. With its experiments, its daring themes, its false
steps, and even its awkward gestures thrown off at random for the
sake of their truthfulness. .
But these relief’s, in collision with the
fragility of a line, have not suddenly emerged from nowhere. By
means of corrected profiles, successive impasto, the space has
been changed, contracted and crystallised into a massive task whose
texture feeds on the diluted surroundings. By means of contrast,
as witness this solidified shadow of a prisoner. Provided a stream
of lava has not covered everything up, leaving only a light stroke,
a faint gleam of hope to point up the ambivalence.
And the colour only becomes visible afterwards,
irrigating the parched land... colour born of the bark, charm stemming
from mass. The
light strokes in diapered pink, green and
yellow triangles are
superadded - felt as kind of offering thrown
in for good weight. To appease a hungry world, to suggest that
however stony the garden,
the plant, with all its delicacy, must
always triumph in the end.
Francois BENICHOU
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