Boatto suggested to me: “Where are we with flowers?”
After the entire history of “flowers” in painting, what sense was there in continuing to focus on this common, importunate species? The game is lost before it even begins, like playing “away from home”, the memory of the floral theme floating terrorized, the eye staring powerless at the flowers of Van Gogh, Redon, Monet, Mafai, Warhol and Hockney.
We cannot do much, we cannot mention… everything has already been done.
But flowers can only be looked at and seen through painting.
No flower can be painted; it is painting which becomes a flower.
Simulating flowers, drawing an arabesque, Baroque, embroidered sign, to which the material and “spatulas” will be applied. Measuring the weight, the thickness. Black on black, a “licorice” black, like a black ejaculation, or white on white, alluring, almost sweet. Flowers without humors, regrets, modifications… just simulations and pretexts for the act of painting. They are flowers abandoned, cut and gathered simply by painting.