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Between colours and emotions, Christelle Sessa shares her “joie de vivre” but also her devouring passion for painting. Through his numerous paintings, we discover an imaginary world with a touch of simplicity. Born in Toulouse, France, the "pink" city, Christelle quickly tries, learns, dares. A passage in front of “Les Beaux Arts”, then life takes her back in its whirlwind that make her move away, to take her back again at the whim that the conventions of society oblige: painting is never very far, and even if sometimes then it does not express itself, the slow scaffolding is built, the building is colored with what it will be. And then suddenly, like a childbirth of colors, an effusion in so many restrained emotions, his tools multiply, the spatula, the knife, the sponge; his method asserts itself. The materials and incrustations, the collage on acrylic... everything in her being swirls, the colours freeze, the thoughts gush out again, like the decalcomania of life, impregnate the cotton of the canvas, freeze between the linen fibres, what must surely be, what must be. I do not obey any intention, any system, any tendency. I have no agenda, no style, no pretensions. I love uncertainty, infinity and permanent insecurity. But like I said, I don't like to impose on a style. Nor he to me It is possible to be moved by the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel, get enthusiastic about an Andy Warhol at MOMA and receive in the face a truth of Banksy that urban art puts within reach of everyone. Why should an artist be only a style, a vision, a time or a trend? Is art not in all things, at all times?
When I paint, I am not yet the one who will be but already more the one I was. Then with a breath of color, a psychedelic thought or the envy of the moment, a flat spatula, the caress of a sponge or the insult of the knife springs up when suddenly too many conventions inhibit thought. The colours dance as the melodies of the sounds sing: my workshop is in Mauritius, outside where the sounds of nature, the animal life and the blurred cracklings of the city make one with the gaze I carry on the moment; the very one who is going to die on the canvas in the sealing of those bursts of painting that then freeze infinity.
Nothing is ever acquired, everything continues, everything has a life and in a canvas there is not an instant when the end is programmed. It is only "later", an indefinable moment when the state of intimate satiety translates into a state of appeasement, that the volutes fade, the colours freeze and the spatulas lie in a feeling of accomplishment. When I have to choose what will be, the colors impose themselves right now. I always wondered what would have been such or such composition if this one had been carried out 1 hour after: would the colors have they been identical with regard to the feeling of what was then? Would these harmonious curves be mistaken for an instant to the benefit of a solid where nothing seems to want to survive?
Indeed, art is only a curvature of space time. A privileged moment of encounter on both sides of this cotton frame or these linen fibres soaked in the thought of an artist. Intimate thoughts... or Christelle takes us, the time of a look, a moment scroll... and then goes... to the next."