frederiqueK Artist Statement

I prefer leaving on the initiative of an external person, the analysis of my reasoning, by will of objectivity

Meeting with frederique krzis-Lorent
Tristan Bacro
To be there, in front of his clothes, they speak to me, they speak to me about it, and it locks me prodigiously.
One told me I that she is alone and that she paints locked up in her music. One told me that she has her reasons. Deep. His history... You surprise me.
What she makes, it is that she takes you in her intimate war. She dangles you in full cyclone, in the silence of the eye. Clinical EYE. She throws you with the face a part of the world any coarse. By resonance, because you are a gentleman, your clothes disintegrate. And in these conditions, taken between two glacises where you are his volatile lover,
then the animals around who again dare to speak to you – to rub their verb to you – are one hell of a Peeping Tom.
One told me that she is not seriously taken. She would have even forgotten or destroys some canvas, at occasion... Any is indignant about it. The taste of the blood comes into sight, my teeth squeak, and I quiver with a hopeless anger. The devil if she did not have the right to it!
They are not children; these are canvas, instants, shifty, air sniffed, polluted. To be delighted to grab only there a vague emanation.
All these pictures freeze at the same instant of their break. Where Picassos got worse, sheceases. It is its essence of Muse, the sensual authority who founds erotism.
Especially not orders. No series perhaps.
But cycles and seasons. Bluish grey Bilal of winter; green Giverny of spring; transparences of summer; feline autumn fire; so in succession in the good will of tides.
It is the job of his companion to confine him. He would like to leave in the world of opportunities, openings. A delightful homage while he blindly sails.
Because a bit true artist has nothing to express: he creates a mode of prehension. He opens a window where the wall seemed impassive. An unpublished framing.
By surveying these writings, I was some minutes within reach a mystery. Very close to his substance. And if I had given a helping hand, he would have fainted. Something,
of course, of woman, that is death and haughtiness. This deleuzienne thought on complaint: returned to me ; be confronted with one «too big for oneself». Sublimated complaint,  innervated by the painting. And this big surplus of the haughty ladies, of the world of fashion, from swishing sound of Lautrec to the disabused urchin cuts’s Calvin Klein, which the pupil of  breaking of ice assail you, plants you, disemboweled there. These sheafs and this
emerald streaks with Tyrian purple which leave you prohibited – do not search any more – it is your blood on the skin. This has no influence on them, they are already elsewhere. The pop art star’s face caught you; meanwhile their body fainted. It was besides never there, ever given to you, nor ever to nobody. What remains you, it is a draped shadow, geisha’s meander, undone jeans. And also, this ingenue pastel pleasure who already dressed you the heart. At the end of this proliferation, I still smell on me a gangue of fleshy ochres.
I did not meet FrederiqueK.