Hervé creff, born in 1956, waited until his thirties to devote his time to painting, at a time when the death of painting was celebrated. But how may one prevent himself from trying to face this challenge anyway?
Give the canvas, this rectangle doomed to be nothing more than a flat rectangle on a wall, a chance to crystallize a projection of our inner world, a gesture that belongs to us but that is beyond our control? This very limit is the greatest stimulation and leads to always solve the same equation: invent a balance, an harmony, while the painter is trying to break free from tradition. By seizing the surface, it is the evidence that he seeks. His gesture must bring out from the void an indisputable presence, a clear sign, even if its meaning resists, a force that exceeds and the intention of the painter and the corset of the image. As Sol LeWitt said: “For each work of art that becomes physical there are many variations that do not.
A single season for equation, the season of the body, the season of the spirit. The hand moves forward, the brush commands.