Text of the exhibition catalogue
Palais Bénédictine, 1997
Whenever I see a
sky with slouds, my mind turn to Kazimierz Dzyga and I marvel that
nature copies so faithfully what this artist give us to look at in
his paintings. Or is it the reverse, and if so does it matter?
What counts is the blue of infinity, the dream-bearing clouds, the
space where the look loses itself as it escapes, the world he
invents, the breaches he opens in reality. Space-vapour,
space-time, depth which draws the soul between two stones shiny with
humidity at the bottom of a rushing stream, on the tracks of a rider
riding on the reflections of water. The blue is where it all
happens, where everything begins, everything ends. In space, is the
frozen tals of comets, as on Earth, where glue algæ become green,
birth of life, the first cell, the first emotion, vibration, light,
drop, breath. There is, in Kazimierz Dzyga's pictures, this breath
of blue, its smoothness and sweetness, a breath of love, vibrant,
like him.
All "Dzyga" skies
are made of blue, even when it is nowhere to be seen. Before,
after, comes read, profound, savage, incandescent lava from which
erupt the whole gamut of oranges, and then the "cheyenne" skies and
the shadows in which fire lurks, then green, puis le vert, blacks,
reflections, grays, yellows, the whole palette conjugated on
forbidden cliffs, two-way mirrors, bottomless wells, minarets that
are no minarets, excrescences, arches, bridges, ropeways,
buttressing, caverns, rocks, bodies of women immodestly veiled in
transparence and light, castles, palaces, obelisks, points of all
kinds of arrows raised to conquer the sky. A sensual breathing,
filled with drops of dew, of desire, of expectation, of patience, of
cascades. The artist's brushstroke kisses whoever looks. The kiss
endures through time. All creation is mysterious. It only trace is
in the intensity of the shock which it will provoke. Each picture
becomes a place of passage, an initiatory quest which projects us
into the essential. From fantastic to dream, from dream to premonition,
from premonition to this reality recreated which becomes more real
than the real.
Then there is
ineffable smile of the blue rocks, the curves and the temptations
which they distil, which they conceal. The serenity of the gorges,
the crevices, the interstices where all the details are worked,
gouged out, detailed just like what is in the foreground. The
purple of a woman's throat, when one appears, although less and less
in recent paintings, as if the obsession with them has been
obliterated, dissolved in the fog. Vague monsters. A subtle game
of question-and-answer, composition of a labyrinth made of motions,
of undulations, of notes held in suspense, each picture its own
orchestration of a subterranean harmony which is neither always the
same nor always something altogether different, all facets of an
interior universe that makes use of the white of the canvas to help
us to see the world.
Isabelle Normand, October 1997
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