As soon as I start to talk about my work as a painter, I have mixed feelings : I know I'm not going to be able to express myself as clearly as I would wish to.
It's a different matter with paintings; everything is there-here, now. simultaneously; everything is "said" but through the senses visually comprehensible.

  A street.

  Four men are at work, doing their normal, everyday job. In the tar little flames flare up, soon to be extinguished.

  In strips of white the outlines of human beings, human templates, are pressed into the still hot tar.

  Safety precautions? Theatre of the Absurde ?

  No, concentration and care.

  A peaceful scene, nothing spectacular. Poles, pipes, barriers, figures, tools. A slowly moving still life.

  A dark winter's morning in 1988 in the rue Faubourg du Temple.
Clutching my brioches in my hand I dash home to get my drawing pad and crayons.

  "What are you doing ?"

  "I'm drawing I'm drawing you at work: in your pink and orange overalls against the various greys of the street and the bright flames in the shiny black smoking tar. Very exciting and above all beautiful''.

  "Yes. it's beautiful!'' he repeats, smiling ironically. ''Are you from the newspapers ?''

  "No, l'm not".
  He carries on working quietly.

  An hour later it's all over.

  The workmen are gone - only the figures on the surfaces of the road remain white on dark grey.

  Voilà, 'before' and 'after' can be left to your own imagination

Volker BLUMKOWSK