La clarté de l’azur fuit comme nos années
Dans les noires ténèbres qui décolorent nos heures.
La lune a plaqué ses teintes argentées
Sur les flots tumultueux pareils à nos cœurs.
With Synesthesia, Fabrice Hermans continues his quest for plastic truth by transporting the spirit through the power of colors and material. In a metaphorical relationship with his creations, the Dutch artist invites us on a deep and singular introspective journey. Once entered into the mystery, the artworks will become language in an ethical and aesthetic murmur that characterizes the artist. This is how Fabrice Hermans demonstrates that everyone is able of greatness and poetry in his/her contemplation.
The streetlights run as funeral torches through the metallic frames of the doors. Six o’clock sharp on the dashboard in orange led digits. The sun will come soon to stir up the smoky rubbles of the night. Bless the hearts whose flame is rekindled when it rises more shiny than a dream. The veils of the dawn blend their copper shades with the monochromatic sheet steel in unpredictable harmonies. A slug of bourbon and I step on the gas to catch up. I have to run away from everything that knows me. To cross the cities in a red furrow of burnt gasoline almost palpable.
Fuel of Nothing
A neon pink star appears in the lightness of the asphalt fuming. The car mechanically rushes into this grey and glowing enormity of a messy science fiction design. Strolling around in a gas station is like attending a meeting of insiders who have been turned by aimlessly wandering hours into lonely chroniclers of emptiness. Among the loafers who never look at each other, a furtive glance suddenly disembodies me from my marble thoughts. A rose sorbet beauty, fallen from its cone, that is dripping on this territory of anonymous. I’m starting off in a hurry. No one wishes to discuss about colors and flavors at a gas station. We’re just refueling with nothing.
43 degrees 17 minutes north latitude, 5 degrees 21 minutes east longitude, the cursor slides on the map in the darkened cockpit. I’ve had enough to drink so I don’t have to stop anymore. Rose Bonbon covers my foggy thoughts for a moment with her sweet gloss. What did I have to offer her? A blissful smile on my bumped-up face at the gas station. On the radio, Little Walter bawled: “My baby don’t stand no cheatin’, my babe“. The bumper hovers over the asphalt like life has been over the years. A few more hours and the city will be gone.
I was awakened by a hundred and one cannon fires. The car has flown far beyond the sky like a mirage wandering in a procession of stars. A fleeting glance at the sleeping water where the moon has plastered its silvery glints. The carcass plunged into the river like foam falls on the rock. I can see the flashing beacons dancing on the shore through the foggy loopholes. Deep as night and clear as my happiest days, the colors and my soul are now playing their symphony in white major.