"Everything is fine - 2002." Exhibition Atelier Christophe Vailati October 2002. Then About the painting of T. G.
(ENG) Thierry Gruas exhibited in October 2002 in Christophe Vailati's studio in Saint-Étienne. Exhibition named "Tout va bien". T.G. was then 40 years old.
See down. Followed by:
- Personal exhibitions 1985 - 2011.
- "About the painting of Thierry Gruas." Written excerpts from 2002 by Jean-Marc Cerino, Franck Enjolras and Pierre Rochigneux. Links.
Tribute & Recognition T.G 1962-2017 - In memory. Revive the illuminating images and texts written in 2002 "About the painting of Thierry Gruas."
Enjolras wrotte about Thierry Gruas in 2002:
"Photography turns a reality into a snapshot, the image of a truth caught in the act; something was there, under the eyes of the lens, at a given moment, and, the time goes by with a click, and the impression of having been able to be there unfolds. Alberto Monguel summarizes it as follows: "Photography, while recognizing the subjectivity of the lens, relies on our conviction that what we see, we, the public, really was there, that it was passed at a precise moment, and that this was grasped as reality by the eye of the witness;" See down full article.
- June 24, 2022 - Also in tribute to late artist Christophe Vailati who died in June 2022°°°.
(FR) Thierry Gruas a exposé en octobre 2002 dans l'atelier de Christophe Vailati à Saint-Étienne.
Exposition nommée "Tout va bien". TG avait alors 40 ans.
- Expositions personnelles 1985 - 2011.
- "À propos de la peinture de Thierry Gruas." Extraits écrits très intéressants de 2002 de Jean-Marc Cerino, de Franck Enjolras et Pierre Rochigneux. Liens.
Reconnaissance T.G 1962-2017 - En mémoire. Faire revivre les images et
les textes éclairants écrits en 2002 "À propos de la peinture de Thierry
Franck Enjolras écrit à son sujet en 2002: "La photographie fait d'une réalité un instantané, l'image d'une vérité prise sur le fait; quelque chose était là, sous les yeux de l'objectif, à un moment donné , et, passe le temps d'un déclic, et l'impression d'avoir pu y être se déroule. Alberto Monguel le résume ainsi:" La photographie, elle, tout en reconnaissant la subjectivité de l'objectif, compte sur notre conviction que ce que nous voyons, nous, le public, s'est réellement trouvé là, que cela s'est passé à un moment précis, et que cela a été saisi en tant que réalité par l'oeil du témoin;" Voir ci-après.
- 24 juin 2022 - En hommage aussi à l'artiste feu Christophe Vailati décédé en juin 2022°°°.
EXTRAIT des œuvres de son site - EXTRACT works from his website :
Extrait du site public de Thierry Gruas indisponible, fermé en mai 2020:
Site de son vivant visible, fermé depuis mai 2020 - website of his lifetime no more visible: http://www.indefini.lautre.net/thierrygruas...
Thierry Gruas studied at the Beaux-Arts in Saint-Étienne. He graduated there in 1985.
His initial works play with the action of time on matter. This research finds its fulfillment with a series of sculptures of human faces and fragments, dedicated from their creation to organic metamorphosis and disintegration.
From the 1990s, he devoted himself entirely to painting. He produced several series fed by the media image: advertisements, news, photo-reports. The image of magazines is photocopied, enlarged, then covered by the pictorial gesture, the process thus preserving a claimed continuity between the scene captured by the photographer and, at the other end, the action of the painter.
From 2009, this time he took his own family photo albums to start the series of "False memories". The faces are often reduced to the simplest expression "so that each spectator can identify with these familiar scenes". He mixes these intimate images with emblematic icons of the time, between 1962, the year of his birth, and today: Gagarin, the Easy Rider bikers, the TGV, an atomic power station chimney, Dolly, the hulla hop, a space shuttle, a statue being knocked down...
The social movements that agitated France against the pension reform in the fall of 2010 inspired the series "Demonstrators - Les Manifestants". From the digital photographs that he himself took in the streets of Saint-Étienne, he isolates faces from the anonymous multitudes, and extracts portraits that do not seek to figure, but to capture life, the moment, the gesture, to provoke the appearance of being, even if it means "disfiguring" the photographic snapshot.
About the series of "False memories."
"I start with ideas, but above all I want to be surprised by my new experiences.
I would be desperate if the painting reflected exactly the original idea. I want the surprise.
I expect painting, a revelation."
I'm not asking for clarity in the confusion, it's up to you to take the time.
I question reality.
I try to create questions."
Thierry Gruas is a painter, one of those painters who have never let go of this fidelity for a medium of solitude, so humble with regard to the possibilities of many other current techniques and at the same time with such a vast territory. Thierry Gruas remains of his time and if he has long developed to the "devouring" and fascinating images of the mass media, today it is to his personal story, to the family album, to the photographs of friends that it gives and restores a new dimension: "My painting no longer has anything to do with the reality of the photographic moment, my painting is another world, mythical and timeless".
extract from Local line 8 - Young creators based in Saint-Étienne.
We never really know what the painting will produce on us as an emotion. We are attentive to this without really knowing what attitude to adopt in front of her. We are looking for it. The slightest detail can be important, but it is under the effect of a surprise that one suddenly finds a first satisfaction in appreciating a canvas. But isolated, the surprise could turn to incomprehension, even to stupefaction betraying unease. The canvas, to please, must also be the imagery of markers, a semblance of attachment points with which it is furtively possible to dialogue. This balance is precarious as in front of a landscape that is lost in the fog. It is due to a strange alchemy that Thierry ensures through his technique and through his function of hanging the subjects on his canvases. Figurative, it is, one might say, but in a way that allows this meeting of the surprised and the known. In such a way that these paintings take account of a universe at the border between the strange abstract and the familiar which becomes clearer, always on the edge, always able to ask a question and deliver an answer. He
First image that Thierry seizes, which attracts his attention, that of the media. Information is at its source. But its truth is often misleading Not important in itself. For Thierry, she is a reflection. I'm amazed at how much is a mix of randomness and precision. Dozens of photos, here and there, at his feet, which he cut out, unseated from their frame, from the text which linked them to a precise story, to an inventory as to a place. Here they are isolated, freed from their shackles, and they still speak to him. Strange words. We cannot say that a theme, that a type of photo attracts him primarily over another. The selection does not take place at this level. It's more subtle, more floating. A common point, however, fixes his attention. His gaze is attracted by faces, by other gazes, by this relief of multiple emotions, by their contradiction, by what seems both so common and so enigmatic. The face, as he reads it himself: "is the minimum sign of belonging to humanity. Painting is not just that." He punctures in the manner of the surgeon, who cuts into the body, into the flesh, the features of these snapshots, and his...
A man, alone, faced with this horde of civil servants, observed, taken to task, whose presence is magnified by a movement of his arm, thrown upwards, between protection and protest, and who sets the rhythm of this terrible and so common showdown. Intermittent du spectacle n°2, 2007, "Gaza", 180x180 cm The photo, abrupt, probably delivers – but we do not know it – its version of the snapshot, giving free rein to violence; painting is a multitude of points of view, a stop on violence, but coated with a thought that painting wins over, and the colors, bright, plural, give substance to this field of the impossible that should be explored. to question in order to vouch for a permanence, a continuity of the ineffable. If, on the other hand, Thierry's painting dramatizes the sporting image, highlights its hidden political twists and turns, it softens in some ways, by multiplying it, the scene of police violence. Rendered abstract in its flat tints, the chromatic reading is nonetheless a source of deep thoughts, because the painting thereby follows a very contemporary movement of restrained brutality, of violence that unfolds, of scattered upsurges, deceiving its world on its possible limitations. Less visible, violence hides, slips away, as vividly as painting makes it abstract, but very much alive, there is no human feverishness in modern society. ...
The image is an imprint, as it is above all a dialogue. It invites itself and becomes above all present in the gaze that sustains it. Thierry, through his painting, becomes the smuggler. He conquers their presence and he directs us through his talent to convey the codes of the singular in the universal, and, through the questions he settles in the collective images, he leaves to those who want to apprehend it, the magic of the universal in the banality of the images that everyone, or almost, holds, these days, deep within themselves. Let us be grateful to him for all this.
Franck Enjolras, March 27, 2012
Page of F. Enjolras at the EHESS
Enjolras, Franck. 2020. Eric Manigaud. L’histoire à ciel ouvert. Saint-Etienne : Le Réalgar, 36 p. ISBN : 978-2-491-56017-1.
Page of Franck Enjolras, doctoral student in anthropology, psychiatrist http://iris.ehess.fr/document.php?id=623
Nothing can be seen, Daniel Arasse, Descriptions.
- Le livre d’images, Alberto Manguel, Babel.
- On n’y voit rien, Daniel Arasse, Descriptions.
for Thierry Gruas who exhibits
Texts by Pierre Rochigneux
March 21, 1999.
Ulla Trente-six-quinze opens the big picture book. “I come from here crippled or recluse, I was born on paper before giving the cry that shook the world. They were already cutting out my life, I was born on paper, I have quadrichrome eyes, darling, still dare to say that I have beautiful eyes, a fertile belly, I gave then as I was given, having received, ingested what I had tended. Thirsty dad and tell me a story to pass the night.” Hopefully the night will pass.
The icon wiped away by offset, swallowed by the scanner, digested by the photocopier, augmented and diminished - become anamorphosis - now replaces the reality from which it emerged, losing its memory for a time, before a reconstitution, a substitution, a revelation, an apocalypse which now tells that not far from the byte is located the blue atom which, flirting with the red atom and the yellow atom, produces a light; as long as we put some oil and learning on it, we obtain at the end of a brush the wise sensation that a material which settles, which vibrates, which covers and uncovers, which stains the fingers, which smells weird and takes a long time to dry. So far, so good. But now it speaks to us like a kid looking for words, like my little nephew who speaks Creole. At first we don't understand. By necessity we will be able to decipher or guess that the icon is hungry, that she wants a caress, that she has an urgent need. The modern icon sells soaps and warplanes, that's no reason to pass over her body without thanking her, you don't empty your balls without giving a hug, otherwise, it's called something else.
Everything is going pretty damn well.
It is good to know that what is expensive in painting is not the material; all of Goya's work cut by cm2 and sold thus would not be worth the nail that will hang a fragment. If, on the other hand, we glued his works to each other, filling the interstices with sketches, we would obtain the image of Frankenstein's creature. Also, composition is the true nature of the work, it is its mastery and its grammar. Maybe, if all goes well.
You don't ask a donkey if the load is too heavy. We see that it advances or that it bends. This is how the necessity of the act of creation arises, when everything is going well, when everything is going badly.
The rainbow is not a bridge for elves to dance on. How would they? As soon as you approach it, the arc closes. But I have to tell myself this story when I see the rainbow, I fail to think that a structured, inalienable and authentically present element cannot be touched, I could not touch Guernica , I couldn't touch Caroline, I know it was painted, I know it was loved.
When I roam the countryside, it must be useful to me, in the form of mushrooms or love, daffodils, photographs. At the Prado I was transformed, at Conques I was transported, at the Rodin Museum I was seduced but it is at the Louvre that I owe my first knowledge of female anatomy; Since then, if there is no naked girl on the walls of an exhibition, I come out of the water like a duck.
I will go see you when time has separated us, I will reread the curves of your face, observe your body which changed with each child, I will tell you that nothing has changed, that in everyday life everything is fine, that in the morning the radio contains the evils of the earth, my exclusive power over them is to lower the volume, I lower the volume of a war, I lower the volume of a plane that falls into the sea, I lower the volume of a bomb, of a debate on contraception, as I lower the volume of my feelings for you. You were a princess, an angel, a muse, beauty, a bitch, my little sugar, the one who sits by my side, a taste of Jasmine, my way of seeing the world without me being the center of it. A torn image, a long worn photograph.
When I'm tired, I stretch my face by closing my eyes, I apply my palms firmly to the eye sockets (and only see recurring stars), until it hurts. By moving the eyes I move the dust that is inside my gaze. We must constantly apply certain gymnastics to the eyes so that they restore to us as faithfully as we dream the lace of the mountain, the tip of the breast, the background of the horizon, the thickness of the line. And when I release my face, when my eyes open to the colorful world, everything is fine, the stars are slowly dying out.
I lift my soul above my building and I observe. With Thierry we are weeding the yard, well, the neighbor is back, I have to change the television antenna, that's why, the bad reception, that's why, the snow, the 6 which does not pass, Pallets in black and white, I get an idea of the floor of Van Gogh's bedroom, I tell myself that the poisonous frog from Amazonia must be superb and that the Black Widow is very black. Which makes me say that a reproduction must be altered to feel the absence of the original, of what is true in the original. And the famous Veronese green still fuels the debate, should we let the work suffer the outrage of time? At the risk of losing your memory. Many libraries have burned down, a child still has to go to the C.P. to learn to read despite Joyce's work, he has to learn to walk despite Jesse Owens' record, he has to learn to stand a pencil despite what Picasso found. The bell-founder in Tarkovsky's film is a charlatan who was only thinking of saving his own skin. But at the time, everything was bad. The autodidact was hungry.
I listen to a shell to see the sea there, feet between heaven and earth, going from one drink to another, from one discussion to another, seeming to be looking for a place to settle down. My back is rubbing against the doorframe, ah, it's all good when we chase a little scratcher. I attempt a discussion on Bergman, then on the Euro, on the National Fronts, on the next floods, I peck like being here precisely between a waiting position and a starting position, a situation specific to a painting exhibition.
Sensing the approach of fine weather, we stick out the tip of our noses, our numb heads wonder if the light will still want to be tamed, we measure the photons, reassured, we finally take our whole body out into the street, into the city, into the new season. The sun will be higher each day, the shadows no longer lick the ground, they descend in a swoop on the planet, will skim the panes trying the daring reflections, the charging skin, heats up, expands, the colors come out, the muffled sounds come to me from an echo of winter, the last message of what had died to be reborn. An attitude of recovery abolishing regrets. It says that you have to shake your butt not to let yourself be overtaken, the avant-garde only happens in the present, it goes for walks as soon as the weather is nice, as soon as everything is fine it goes on vacation.
Thirteenth way of looking at things:
Her swaying, her postures, her way of not seeing me, her buddy hugging her tightly. I get closer to him to be closer to her, I am interested in their story, their next vacation, they will leave, I finally dance with her, I can only feel her by touching her. I think with my hands. My hands are fine.
Fourteenth everything is fine:
I am deaf to the falling leaf that startled the scorpion. I can see the spider's web, this trap is not meant for me. So it is with our observation, it is linked to the size of our legs, to our head circumference. At our place in nature.
When she stretched out on me I was quite convinced that it was no longer a question of arguing, I knew that all that I could think no longer interested her; though I was thinking of her yet, now she was working to make me forget. Thus the creative gesture sometimes replaces the intelligence of the work.
What man does no beast would do. Very few imitate us, except out of mockery or submission. Never for the survival of the species. And we do not know what will be the design on the skin of a newborn cow, whether this unborn cat will have a white paw or eyes of different colors, we still consider it necessary to give a monkey a brush and tubes. But if one day he painted us as we are, as he sees us, we would kill the monkey immediately.
When she tells me she's leaving, I loosen the bridle, I use the belt, it's a trick to hold her back: the bridle is rubber, my belt is the skin of a Conquistador boa. When I don't like what I see in her, I roll my eyes, it's a trick, I'm myopic and the diffraction prevents me from thinking. When I see a pastel by Degas, I freak out, no trick will make me lie in front of him.
Fifteen years later I see her again recognizing me, we are looking at the same images, other hair is on her face, other rings are on her hands. Our memories will not be enough, we have moved too far away. We don't talk about what united us or what we watch, afraid of a disagreement? We are lost. I don't lose what I love, I lose the reasons to love, I have lost the reasons to love Sophie, I no longer love surrealism. Nor Paris. I'm starting to like the sun, I'm changing, Sophie give me your hand, let's talk about our gaze, I see our story there, I see what disappears.
Pierre Rochigneux, March 21, 1999
Liens - links:
(FR) Tout va bien,
pour Thierry Gruas qui expose
Textes de Pierre Rochigneux
21 mars 1999
Liens - links:
°°°Portrait de Christophe Vailati.