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| no title, 1961 [pic courtesy of Galerie Van de Loo Projekte] |
from Untitled Passages by Henri Michaux, ed. Catherine de Zegher, 2000:
the
tree without end, the tree of life that is a source, that is, dotted
with words and images and propounding riddles, the flow that, without
interruption, even for one single second, passes through man [sic]
from the very first moment of his [sic] life right up to the last,
stream of sandglass, that only stops when life stops . . .
Is
a statement really necessary? Isn’t it obvious that I paint so as
to leave words behind, to put an end to the irritating question of
how and why? Could it really be that I draw because I see so clearly
this thing or that thing? Not at all. Quite the contrary. I do it to
be perplexed again. And I am delighted if there are traps. I look for
surprises. To know always would bore me. It would upset me. Must I at
least be aware of what’s been going on? Not even. . . .
When
it comes to countries, the more one distrusts them the better. . . .
A
man and his face, it’s a little as if they were constantly
devouring each other. . . .
I
don’t think much about influences. You enjoy listening to people’s
voices in the street, but they don’t solve your problem for you.
When something is good it distracts you from your problem. . . .
No
longer to imitate, but to signify nature. By strokes darts, dashes.
Ascesis
of the immediate, of the lightning bolt. . . .
Like nature, the Chinese language does not draw any conclusion of its own, but lets itself be read . . .
Characters
open onto several directions at once.
Point
of pure equilibrium . . .
Calligraphy
in its role as mediator between communion and abeyance . . .
Calligraphy
around which — quite simply — one might abide as next to a tree,
or a rock, or a source. . . .
Vibrant certainty
its
touch so fine, making a sign
peak,
abyss on the same line. . . .
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| Henri Michaux [pic courtesy of Isola di Rifiuti] |
In a black mood [after his wife’s death of burns] I start, having grabbed one, to cover it with a few dark colors and sullenly to squirt water onto it at random, not in order to do anything in particular, and certainly not a painting. I have nothing to do, I have only to undo. To undo the world of confused, conflicting things in which I am plunged. . . .
They were gestures, interior gestures, the ones with which we don’t have limbs but desires for limbs, stretching, impulsive movements and all this with living ligaments that are never thick, never big with flesh nor enclosed in skin . . . What an experience it will be when the time is ripe at last and, having got into the habit of thinking in signs, we are able to exchange secrets with a few natural strokes like a handful of twigs.
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