|
|
Fatima Binet Ouakka, Biographie
—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Paintings in
Motion Text by : Jean Claude HALLE
Journalist Writer
The Painter
The first encounter with Fatima’s painting is joyous, colorful, sometimes
calling out to some brutality - that is, of course, a personal journey.
From the first second, her art permeates gradually, gets round - and sometimes
bewitches. Her blues in their variety, are a pleasure, her reds always treated
with decency, while the range of her greens emerge all the tenderness of the
world.
Her golds, which spread from dark red to the most vivid light - often in the
same painting - are more, at the contrary, in my eyes, a drift of continents,
I beleive, feeding on " fierce tectonic plates springing depths of a soul
more violent, tumultuous, passionate, than does suggest the smooth surface of
its quiet personal ocean swell. This strong, volatile, and probably highly flammable
cocktail, challenging a rich, complex, very personal and resolutely non-figurative
work.
Obviously, Fatima likes big paintings, but also all forms and techniques that
illuminate the desorder of her atelier, the vertical height of walls where her
canvas are hung on the wall.
The Artist
beyond the painter, the artist. because art for Fatima is a day becoming life.
She doubles her first vision with the richness of a new expression: positive
schizophrenia, as we say nowadays. indeed, the hologram of the designer stands
out now gradually the silhouette of the painter woman.
Shapes and colors have migrated from the canvas to the fabrics and are dressing
now women - in unique models - in the glare of the movement of life. To see,
admire, and to wear ...
The Woman
Finally, and first her look. Those of her characters, empty or full, Or terrifying
by their evocations - see the Titles of some of her Canevas, arisen from the
depths of time, history or places (Ö Dear Berberie ) his gaze, most
especially, always black, at the first impression, even if this is not the colour
of her eyes. Still shrouded by thick fringe behind which it sheltered, mask or
took refuge, fringe reflecting in her eyes walls of defence of ochre citadels
in her native Morocco. Plunging in it, if only for a moment, is taking the risk,
sung by Aragon, to lose any memory. Thank you Fatima, the fulcrum of meetings,
of all your cultures, Berber, Moroccan, French ... the African and the European
ones, of all your gifts. they have the most beautiful names of the World: Generosity
and Love.
|
|
|
|