In a world, neither closed nor achieved, wherein everything seems to be frozen, just there on purpose to be admired, ghosts and chimeras are intertwining; cagey minds and specters are still haunting some thoughts, some pasts. In that realm, paused or slow motioned, beings with no identity are gazing, genderless and with no form of uniqueness. They’re passing by, sluggishly, from one side to the other side of the frame. They’re interchangeable elements. They depict dangling memories. A zany world hinging on roughly painted structures and organic skeletons that are balancing the different arrangements. Despite quietness and order that are ruling there, this environment, similar to its creator, is far from being Edenic and idyllic. It’s entropy which coming from the fertile ideas of Clémence that is nourishing her compositions. Motionless cycles, time for our eyes to catch the oversize eyes drawn in coloured hazes. Cartoons alike, they dialogue with interlocking wires and pipes, they kiss rigid tongues and they’re staring at nameless objects. Absurdity seems then to reach its pinnacle.
A zany world hinging on roughly painted structures and organic skeletons...
But what nonsense are we talking about? How to understand what mock the logic; ours, in a world ; hers, obeying formal and structural rules? It is from this moment, from this questioning, that we really get into Clémence’s work. Whether two-dimensional or three-dimensional, with pencil or oil, this fictional territory takes us on a journey through its memories, childhood and obsessions. Sometimes Japanese, sometimes driven by haunting music or swinging rhythms. Clémence turns us into a work full of symbols that borrows some aspects from the work of Walter Swennen, Odilon Redon or Léon Spilliaert and ignores any procedure to be followed. The work gradually evolves in an organic way and opens up to new formal questions. In the same way as Philippe Guston, Mayan S. Mayan or Armen Eloyan, like an ongoing hallucination, the subjects chosen follow one another, drawing their inspiration on the same places and are shaped over time to finally achieve a different result. The shapes are rounded, colored and enlivened a little more.
In a waking trip that looks like a tale of a contemporary Eugene Ionesco, Clémence is inviting us to leave the childhood and getting closer from a heavier realty; made of trials and mistakes, so as to draw near the vulnerability of a steady existence: as a reverberation, a resonance of our troubles and of our misunderstandings.
Vincent Vanden Boogard