Aura

Mankind has no use for superficial consolation: what it seeks is a consolation that enlightens.
Stig Dagerman

What if the idea of man was born out of a white flash of lightening under the eyelids of creation? Éric Michel’s work is an island of light for the traveller orphaned by his genesis.
In the beginning was darkness, and in a slight diffraction of time came the alphabet of colour, the notes of a polychrome arch tied to infinity. At the heart of this tremor, recreated by the artist’s quick hands, light penetrates the original fault line of human contradictions.

The spectator, swamped by sad passions, rediscovers the primitive axis, the absolute gentleness of gestation before scarification. “The light speaks”, but never speaks lightly. Éric Michel’s ethereal work radiates and brings the man sacrificed at the stake of reality closer to his truth. 

To the verb, the director, Stanislav Valade, prefers the creative gesture. In the flood of images, he reveals the hand’s fleeting caress, follows the silent slide of the curve on snow, offers the spiritual urge before the heaviness of the flesh.
On this subtle score, composers Chris Adamsky and Benjamin Mathevet are the wave-bearers of the sources that emanate from the sculptor of light. Their music, entwined with the ages of the work, questions and embraces the infancy of the act.