Yann Creach

The limit between the gesture and the planned. The limit of representation, even if it is there. spread, compressed dilated. What the world does with our bodies and minds, I crush with colors. My faces, my men and my women are taken in the frame, they deploy there, they struggle. Maybe if there was no frame, the painting would run away and there would be no more subject. I paint with my bowels, I spread them with my brushes, I enclose them in a two-dimensional box and let them struggle.
It is a tangent space between suffering and hope, between confinement and freedom, between voluntary passions and passions. The primitive figuration of the unspeakable. The soft man and his square universe, the ephemeral bodies and the perpetual immanence of this mortal condition.

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