BOOK SOULAGES, NOS REFLETS

If I think of all this, it is because of the reflections. In them I saw, not what you were, but what you represented. This solid rock – you have so often been compared to a rock – lets the waves strike it and withdraw in a muffled burst. It sweeps away all those who tried to exist through it and reminds them of their futility. The art world, which built itself on the existence of artists, reflects the image of those crustaceans clinging to the rock. Without questioning its own legitimacy, this world revolves artificially around what is most sacred. From this spiral, every outline will fade. No name will remain. The curators forgotten. The theorists forgotten. The gallerists forgotten. The critics forgotten. Only the artist will remain, who alone crossed History.

Caroline Gaudriault