At the height of flowers
At first glance, a suspended doorway, erected according to the vestiges of lacustrian rites and similar to the votive porticoes of the time, made of a trellis of gold that dispenses bunches of sulphur, mauve and purple dipped in grisaille on either side of its arch. (...) Black garden.
Oh! Violette - Ou la politesse des végétaux presents an ensemble of tuned drawings, a plurality of painted and ornamented formats by Camille Fischer. In ellipses, the curator re-enacts the spirit of the bedroom, litanying and swooning, like a great bouquet of shadows and flowers, the vertigo of visions where the intimacy of eros meets a cameral caprice. In a quiet homage to her models, Camille Fischer unravels the painted motifs on the subject, consuming fleeting appearances, frail fractions, the secret diagrams of a grating mille-fleurs, the throes of a worldly oxymoron.
A reverie reminiscent of the cohabitation of oddities created by Lise Deharme and Claude Cahun in their illustrated poetic collection Le cœur de Pic, this exhibition unfolds like a mise en suspens, as much an antique hang as a chimerization of motifs reassembled on the wall's surface, a great holistic and Dantesque wallpaper. Like an ornamentalist who composes through coordinates and variations, Camille Fischer proposes a floral madness through a montage of juxtaposed drawings, where a gallery of young women meets other portraits, theatrical and ephemeral flowers of artifice.
Here, the artist orchestrates the recording of the eight clos, where each arrangement flirts with the domestic compulsivity of possessing a place of one's own. It's as much a decorative counter-reform of the adolescent punk poster as a gesture of anathema imposed on know-how, the better to find the interstice of half-tone, textile transparency and feverish embroidery.
Along the famous trelliswork, rockeries, canopies and flowerbeds. From rapture to rapture, an atlas of flora forms (...) is printed on the profuse appearance of the pearled background that delivers its sequences. The eye sails from sharp shots to blurred passages, everywhere a poem of flowers; an overflowing cruising even, including the taste for latency, stirs the eye with impulses that count the variety.
Lost in the immense botanical glossary, imbued with reveries of ladders and insets, and in hypothetical Palermo rocks lined with palm trees, this hollow pavilion, inhabited or rather turned inside out like a glove on itself, absorbs the entire garden under the folds of the artist's hand, improvised as a bedroom. Embroidered heads, painted typography, dense lines and glitter stitches represent the extraordinary grotesquerie of a sulphur flower materiality.
And in the closet, the grimace, the devil's simagrum, the twisted eye and the loose tooth above the whisker. To the max.
Mathieu Buard, January 2024.
