“Mon Peinturier! / My Painturier!”
Text written for the solo show catalogue edited in 2006, Galerie Alain Le Gaillard, Paris, FR
You had never seen green before Julien painted it.
A red so alive that his wounded paintings bleed.
He describes the thickest of social stratums,
His paintings stick to you like a spider’s web.
What he does is never out of focus,
To do the same, you’d need a brush of nails.
Faced with the avant garde artist,
A piece of wood and a few bristles,
Like a mirror with a murky backing,
The thumb and index are a double gift.
Under his paintbrush man appears,
Wearing his soul,
Like a flash of truth,
In a world of masks.
He freezes my neighbors, shifts my memory gaps,
He saved parts of the city before they died.
These postcards that I have lived,
Torn down now by a few cranes.
My city is dressed by this painturier,
For his Parisians don’t have a furious complexion,
His Paris, crossbreeding colors with a scalpel,
And if he is not there, it’s because a capital calls.
This man dips his plume in a rainbow.
Turn your back and his painting moves.
A stain becomes grain and from the canvas, a rose grows.
He paints between the lines and in the margin.
And by magic, turns the spotlight on the marginal.