And what? We go to his health opening, uncritical, hoping to meet some friends. And we find ourselves like a Mickey, cornered like a small, cowardly little mouse. Just like as if we had seen the Lavier installation from the Mickey labels. We would've also had the impression of becoming a viewer of an contemporay art ersatz; the one used by all the publicists without any kind of consideration in order to sell glasses or cars or whaterver else they can think of. From contemporary art for sophisticated people to contemporary art for avid viewers, there is here, just enough provocation, abstraction to go haywire. Only dark monochromes. Gushes of glossy and transparent hairspray on 16/9th of sizes. On the floor, copies of an outdoor toilet, composed of electric aphorisms and esoteric illustrations.
So, even if we are halfly destroyed by this cowardness, should we play our Mickey role? We would metamorphosize in a publicity character. It would be very emotional, cynical, the very edge of the edge, the wall in which we can see ourselves in, a way of being evacuated from the speech by too many references, all in all: a creamed-cake for everyone.
Meanwhile, it seems that the poor Constance Mayer has slitted his throat and that his friend, Prud'hon is inconsolable. The title of this presentation is calling for a dramatic tragedy. However the monochrome is resisting, pleasant to look at, he does not reveal anything, he simply passes under our nonchalant critics and screams with disdain. A pretext for endless discussions.
Indeed, we can ask ourselves if we are not faced with the type of imposture that makes us enjoy art. The whole thing would appear completely modern, and if an artist should embrace the whole space of a gallery, with a wit of a manifest, is always pleasant.
We then went back to the exhibition to si, if once more, we hadn't let ourselves be wraped up in our avid role of opening surveyor, that the exhibition would have emphasized. The verdict is approaching. There is a certain refusal of the story, of the choices of the imposing outlines, of the unkown legendary references: a set trap.
But its bait are completely integrated, its way of functionning are registered and the whole ensemble falls apart on us. The monochromes are not fully disentegrated, the text on the cardboard is smoky and way to elliptic to be litterature or argumented for that matter, the references of the publication make us wonder if it not really a search engine that has been chained to a dozen linguists. But because the exhibition we are faced with takes us to another environment, there is a persisting doubt to not believe in this fumistic, sadistic entity that takes over us.
We are not in this post period, we are in this "post" time, this hyper-post, where there is no belief in any kind of reincarnation, but simply in the use, done in a virtuose manner and where relexes and references are all reduced to ash. Black is not only the color of the dried up blood of Constance Meyer but is also the color of the bile of the cynical,who posses no other solution than to realise how cynical he is, or simply put the bile of the viewer himself.
The mouvement becomes simple and clear, obviously valid because it has created opacity.
And Benoît Maire facinates us with our fictional environment.