By Yudi Kravzov
I extend my arm, trying to reach as far as possible, and I dip it back in. Every time I touch the water, I turn my wrist inward. First my thumb goes in, then my index finger, then my whole hand. I return my wrist to its place. I paddle with my whole palm, and my whole arm pushes into the water. My other arm does the same, and every three strokes I take a good breath of air. All I can think about is pulling water, I have to pull more water.
The closing of Thibault Barrère’s exhibition at the Irma Appel Gallery promised intimacy. The live portrait would surprise those present and take us back to a time when photography did not exist. Together, we would create the ideal space for the artist to share his processes, themes, and compositions. The objectives would be to understand the artist’s stories and to delve into his provocative discourse, inspired by myth, parable, and philosophy.
I decided to prepare the apple pie my grandmother taught me to make. The caramel dripped inside the oven, and I had to clean it before it cooled completely. That’s when I burned the inside of my wrist.
Now, as I try to concentrate on moving forward, pushing the water, I realize the burn was a warning.
Between excited and tense, once in the gallery, I set out to be the one to pose for the live portrait.
As soon as I sat down in front of Thibault, my eyes and his immediately connected. I sensed how he was looking for my cultural expressions of sacred origin, and the intimate discourses of my ancestry. His idea that death is the relief of many was present as he studied my face to capture it in his composition. Yes, Thibault Barrère moved in time, and before my eyes, he became an imaginary being, who between traditions and legends, dialogued with my lineage, entered my universe, and touched my origin in the world. Each of his brushstrokes captured the strength of the ancestral impetus that’s been transmitted to me from generation to generation. Who would have imagined that such a wonderful connection could exist?
I felt my grandmothers emerge, and I became them. My inner strength welled up as if I were an erupting volcano, which, in the heat of May, was begging for rain. I began to boil until I felt dejected. I’m sure that Thibault noticed this, because, treating me naturally, he gradually calmed me down. He asked about the burn, and I pointed out the apple pie. He said he loves homemade desserts with fruit in them. Soon after, he complimented my dress, and brought me back to the present, making me laugh, until he pulled out my grandmother’s pie recipe.
At night, I dreamed we were still in the Gallery, in that place where anything is possible. My grandmothers and I were posing for the baroque gaze of Thibault Barrère. His joy was ours, and it was a delirium to see him dancing between brushstrokes. The beauty of his mischievous gaze, playing with us, faded in my image.
When I woke up, I felt the presence of my grandmothers on my skin. As much as I wanted to hold them, they let go of me.
To stop thinking, I went swimming. Tears hide well on a wet face. Exhausted, I lean on the shore and recover the rhythm of my breathing. I inhale, exhale, and despite all my attempts, irremediably, my head and my heart are transported back to that afternoon, to that dream.
