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My meeting with the artist Ben-Ami Koller was determining. Without its requirement, its generosity and its benevolence towards me, it seems to me that the paint would never have been imperative upon me. Thanks to Ben-Ami Koller, Daniel Lacomme, Thibaut de Reimpré... Egon Schiele, Zao Wou Ki, Jackson Pollock, Joan Mitchell, André Marfaing, Antoni Tapies, Anselm Kiefer... Rustin, Ibrahim Shahda, Bernard Piga... Denys-Louis Colaux, Jeanine Rivais... By their talent, their commitment, their requirement and their tenacity, they allowed me to raise me. This site is dedicated to them. (Sylvie CAIRON).
by the writer Denys-Louis Colaux
A BLACK VEIN : ah yes, here is a violent pictorial universe which I like profoundly, I like her for the évocatoire power, the frenzy, the concern, the fury, the black, opaque theater, the distortions and the convulsions. I like this work for the horrifying, deafening and magnificent shout which it pushes without reserve, this big black, raw and total shout. I like this way of poking the darkness inside of the being, of opening the space to the roaring. To enter in a kind of fantasy of the intestine terror. I like this eviction of the shout, cathartic doubtless for the artist and her regardeurs. I like this kind of black rebellion. I love this state of assertion. Any work maintains a relationship with the “no”, here, it is categorical, it is shot to pierce love all this burning black. This despair which rises up to the summit of oneself. This strength. This protest.

A COLORED VEIN : in the work of Cairon, there is a central place for the vitality, the movement, the excitement, the démènement (useful neologism, without coquetry). The color, here, marks these fervent glisten with life. There is this powerful statement of life, the violent electricity of a principle of life. If the work pronounces a big not, if it is near an attitude which barks and roars strongly against the obstacles, the dramas, the existential ordeals, she is quite whole favorable to the life, she is with her, totally committed. I also note that there is at the artist's a great capacity in the synthesis, in the essential lines, in the nervures even of the drawing and the painting. A formidable effective. The art to return the thing through its systoles, her pulse, her shivers.

But a feeling of big melancholy is read in the work and haunts her. An impression of solitude, isolation. Poignant and very aesthetic face to face (or the back-to-back) of these high creatures of colors with their shadows on ochre and brown funds shows of it. Nevertheless, these beings of colors thrown in the somber are also a strange assertion of the beauty and the unusual elegance. Yes, these more peaceful but very singular compositions have a real power of bewitchment. After the played up, rebel forms, the lines in crisis and in earthquake, Cairon leaves a space in the subtle, in the differentiating, in the delicate. Things here seem to infuse, to gleam slowly. The pulse slowed down. The breath takes its time. We perceive a sigh maybe. A calm. A grave grace. Cairon creates a universe where the pictorial poetry asserts all her states. We participate confidentially in flows and in ebb of the work, in its rhythms. 

But we said it, here, in this universe, that bawls, that roars, that struggles, that  fights, that clatters wildly. The being is in its boilings, in its fevers. Tearings and quartering. Fervent quest. I place on this, because I anticipate a kinship, the poem of the beloved poet louviérois Achille Chavée.

Je Me De De

Je me vermine
Je me métaphysique
Je me termite
Je m’albumine
Je me métamorphose
Je me métempsychose
Je me dilapide
Je n’en aurais jamais fini
Je me reprends
Je me dévore
Je me sournoise
Je me cloaque
et m’analyse
Je me de de
Je m’altruise
Je deviens mon alter ego
Je me cache sous les couvertures
Je transpire l’angoisse
Je vais crever madame la marquise

And in these violent influxes of colors, we are also four horizons of the big human disasters, the big collapses which go of the prehistoric fight to Auschwitz by way of Verdun: every luxurious creative genius regarding disaster is summoned to appear. These howling mouths and terribly deformed by the dismay are one terrifying mirror of our catastrophic advance. It is not said that our species is conceived for the triumph. The way the artist informs us about it is subjuguante. And we still said nothing, about its violent art, when we did not say to what extent it achieves the vibrating humanity. Yes, I also like her for this tremendous reason, that it affects, in a powerful immoderation, this rare and sublime virtue that is the condolence.

ROOT OF AN ART : I may not put an end to this small article without singing, without celebrating, without praising again, in an indefatigable enthusiasm, the virtues, the supplenesses and the eloquence of Sylvie Cairon's line. This dynamic line, this way of snatching and of returning the main part swamps me with enjoyment. It is at the same time rudimentary and of a stunning sophistication. Ingenious as a folded up range which would evoke the light, the palpitation, the heat of a day of August. Put the forest in the tree, all the forest in the silhouette of a tree. This skill, this poetic sense(direction) enchant me. These commas, these apostrophes, these human downstrokes(jambs) have something to do with a calligraphy of the thought. And it is by the power évocatoire of this tremendous human punctuation that Sylvie Cairon paints big pages, very big pages which I go through with the precautions and the consideration due to the works.
Denys-Louis Colaux
by the artist Daniel Lacomme
The exercise of the painting takes some energy but it gives it. What is thus this strength which shines with faces painted by Sylvie Cairon ? What is this energy which emanates from it, whoever is their subject, whoever is their technique, so much everything is face with her, even in the approach of the landscape of a so intense and invested writing ? The immediate impact of the work of Sylvie Cairon as well in its exhibitions, as in her workshop, begins with its faces in large format: that they are solitary or associated by three, playing then on the link or the estrangement (theirs or ours), and the repetition of particularly hieratic attitudes. Faces returning to the life thanks to a colored invention which seems random in the first look but which is very quickly imperative thanks to an imaginative and just expression. The characters of Sylvie Cairon live, in this lighting and this very surprising material in its detail, it coulures, thickenings, transparencies, veils, flochetages or glacis. In drawing, faces in movement form an unlimited bacchanal as if the gesture of the painter ran from a sheet to the other one in a long path of painting, a sometimes very iridescent writing by ink of color. Another recurring theme at this artist is the portrait. Faces still, but as broken the silence by their shout, such the masks of the antique tragedy. But Sylvie is her not actress herself ? The monotype finally, seems to be in this work as the vein of the essential ore the conception of the representations of its internal world of which will be pulled. This technique of the imprint monotype finds here totally its vocation of " appearance for the imagination ". Of all this appears a " twilight of the color " suggesting a way of radiography of the vision which throws this presence of improbable beings in front of us, irradiating their drama - or their jubilation - but certainly and before any their energy.
Daniel Lacomme
Painter - the former professor of the National Fine Arts Academy of Paris and the summer Academy of Nice
author of the collection : l'Atelier vivant
by Jeanine Rivais-SMOLEC
Shall we say never rather how much the traumas of the childhood condition adult's life ? According to a song of Jean Ferrat, " Nobody cures the childhood "! The case of Sylvie Cairon, while growing in front of the personality of an imperious father, and who, even not still adolescent, decided to set bodily, the causes and the consequences of all the accidental psychic imprints which affected her. So she was able to transform in force her suffering, credit note of the dreams for "tomorrow". Her dreams? Paint. What allowed her to confront with its representation of past; describe how is enough to her a tiny detail of a face of the painting, to make " the buried emotion " surface. Realize that she lived, as a matter of fact of the legend of the memory, elaborated to forge ahead … Her assets having been her curiosity, its predisposition in the cheerfulness, in the insubordination, its taste of the disobedience, its refusal of the resignation, its rebellion, its capacity to face, to seize the opportunities, to make the opportunities, to observe, to look … And then, the fact of being fly-away always allowed her " to be determined with regard to one "... It seems good that this kind of painted autobiography constitutes a particular shape of " the writing of one " and " narratives of life ". And, in her so grave approach, if Sylvie Cairon could express a suspicion of humor - black-, it would be to say whether having become almost mutique in front of her parent, it is she - parent - who grants from now on to her male creatures, what she defines by the sentence : " it's time to speak "! Decision which does not entail the slightest of the paradoxes characterizing her approach : if all the faces have the wide open mouth, they are always shot to the shade. As if their shout getting lost in the nothingness, was necessarily inaudible. Let us pledge that when she will have there come turn the faces to the light, she will have made a big jump, until her conviction that, seen the well-being which she removes from her search and the power of her comment, no matter if " nobody cures the childhood ", because she does not want it maybe really ? !
Jeanine Rivais
Only the heart of the work of Sylvie Cairon
by Stéphanie BARBA
The afternoon of August, hot, a little bit overwhelming, moves towards the evening, slows down the step of the visitor. In the middle of nowhere, in the deep campaign, punctuated with meadows and with thick bushes, we say "bouchures", - they fill the look, contain the step of animals - the Tower of Vesvre, recently taken out of the dungeon of medieval past, glistens in the sun, insensible in the time which passes, to the men who restored her, new and of always. Two "permanent employees" inform me: " the exhibition is opposite, in the barn ", their chin indicates it to me, they will not say a word furthermore, I shall soon bless their dumbness. They let me cross only the flooded with light court. The barn? A cathedral. On the threshold between light and twilight, between heat and freshness, it is space and silence, immediately " somewhere else ". No furniture breaks the space, only, in the center, a bench, later, will invite you in a slow pondering. The look rises freely up to the skeleton. On the walls of plastered crude oil, slowly blond, Sylvie Cairon's paintings are so many stained-glass windows, blind stained-glass windows. It is necessary to have the deeply rooted life and the hope to have these shadows and these bright fulgurances. The painting is a language without word, its vocabulary covers all the registers, all the volumes, the breaks as the upheavals, the whispers as the shouts. Without having to come to light, the painter can say what he has of deeper, of more buried, of more secret, more howling. Suffering of the soul, suffering of the body: " you will give birth in the pain ". Omnipresent, triumphant, indissolubly bound to the death, the life stains Sylvie Cairon's somber paintings. It is pain, disease, but also childbirth, powerlessness but also size. High, vertical on their paintings, silhouettes, more suggested than said, are next to their shadows, to their copies, their fantasies, their uncertainties, remain unconquered. They stand, sad doubtless, but never prostrées. The visitor does not leave intact this universe, he goes out of it either shocked, horrified, or dilated, plunged into the meditation, sent back to himself towards what he has of deeper, more precious, bigger, but also at least dicible. At the same time sacred and human, Sylvie Cairon's work makes in each its path. The visitor either was not invited in of indecent confidences, its intimacy was not raped. The pain is not a subject of conversations. Only a big control of the technique allows Sylvie such an eloquence without word.
Stéphanie Barba