Fifteen Aphorisms

Abstract

May–August 2014 • 19 illustration by michel devrient My senses allow my brain to know precisely where it’s lost. Studio windows, in all likelihood, face north so painters won’t have to bear the sun’s irony. An airplane seat’s soft upholstery conceals a steel rib-cage the way a piece of cheese does a rat trap. Thought—expression’s well broughtup daughter who carries on as though she’s the mother. The altruist—only an adulterous egoist. Earth has no history. The geologist is its ventriloquist. Were I God, I’d regret not consecrating my Sunday to the creation of the bicycle. Not easy to fathom how a stream can speak as it flows. Travel’s excitement pales beside the look of my dog left at home. My head decides where, my feet whether. The cerebral hemispheres: a leftwing invention inspired by the right. I’m a bit like the watch that, with Swiss precision, discloses the jitters of the maker who built it. I listen to the night the way others eavesdrop at a door. I catch the rain like I overhear a conversation. As I age I’m gradually acquiring the stability of a collapsed house of cards. A few seconds are enough for my dog to understand that the reflection is not himself. A whole lifetime probably won’t get me there. Translations from the French By Robin Magowan Michel Devrient is a Swiss painter-draughtsman-cartoonist domiciled in rural Burgundy. Among his books are The Monday Painter, Doubles (dialogues in drawing with Virgil Burnett), and a collection of aphorisms, Martini with a Splash of Dawn. There are several books of drawings, including Chausse-Trapes, Nous et les autres, Devrient dessine, and Phénix & Co. Robin Magowan has recently adapted The Garden of Amazement: Selected Gems from Saeb (1590–1676). He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Fifteen Aphorisms Michel Devrient Michel Devrient’s Art of Drawing Find a large piece of paper. It should not be standard format, not classical raisin or jesus, but a big sprawling surface, two meters at least from edge to edge. Don’t worry if it is bent or creased, or even torn. Such concern has nothing to do with drawing. Open the window so that the landscape and everything it contains may flow in about the paper. Then begin to draw. The infinitive “to draw” should be interpreted very loosely. It means, if it can be defined at all in this context, to let things happen to the paper. For example, marks might be made on it with a variety of instruments including pens, pencils, brushes, crayons, teacups, jam spoons, fingernails, trouser seats, dog noses, cat whiskers, mouse feet, and so on. A friend comes into the room and flicks cigarette ash on the paper, so much the better. If another friend comes into the room and spills wine on the paper, better yet. If a child comes into the room, invite the child to play with the paper by drawing or writing on it. If a sparrow flies through the room and leaves a small dropping on the paper, rejoice in this event. If a crow flies through the room and leaves a large dropping on the paper, rejoice more vigorously. If an owl or a hawk or an eagle visits, sing “Hallelujah!” In fact, anything that comes in from outside must be encouraged to settle on the paper: dust pollen, seedlings, insects—any wind freight at all. Let the sun shine on the paper by day; the moon by night. If there is a storm, accept its raindrops as willingly as the plowed ground does in August. Don’t worry about finishing the drawing; it will finish itself. I learned this method for making drawings from my neighbor Michel, who was using it when I first met him back in the sixties . . . – Virgil Burnett, from The Monday Painter, by Michel Devrient, tr. Robin Magowan (Pasdeloup Press, 2009) ...