Born in 1952 in Paris
Living and working in Venise from 1990
Hervé Bordas’ writing follows a line nourished by abstraction and figuration along an indecisive border that he does not recognize. The lines tear and move apart, the spaces open up in search of the world and wander in the desert of the nights. Sometimes a forest of trees, processions of silhouettes, successions of moments or characters, snow soldiers, frost warriors leaving for the countryside, banners at the forefront, apparitions, “portraits”. More recently, arborescences, branches that look as much at breathing as at corals or river deltas, the sides of mountains, the melting snow. Obviously, all these people are either there or not, it’s a question of taking a good look at them. A world of geology and eros. Infinite ramifications, both in the lines of the hand and in those of the night, between the constellations. The gap between the stars and our life is a reflection that tightens on the still being or the non-existent.
The line alone follows its path, it divides, it suggests, these are our constellations. As it forms, the line closes and opens up to other forms.
There is in the paintings, worked in layers, a whole alchemy of “doing”, a few minutes, or hours, days or even years. The vision must be focused. This painting is in fact more on the side of a writing, that of Michaux or Klee for example. The observer is also a reader, you have to get close to it, even very close. Looking at these paintings with a magnifying glass wouldn’t displease me. It has to swarm well, it has to be well “inhabited”.