ŽILDA

ŽILDA – ART HUNTER AND COLLECTOR OF THE INACCESSIBLE

April 2017 – 2748 words

TRAINING AND WORKING METHOD

How did you become an artist?

I always doodled at the back of the classroom, and after my studies I honed my painting skills. Going to art school to have someone hold the brush for me was out of the question, so I taught myself by working from the masterpieces. After two years cooped up reproducing works by Van Gogh, Rembrandt, and Murillo, I had the technique down pat and I thought it might be time to find my own way of working and get out into the fresh air…

Why work in cycles?

I've always enjoyed working in cycles, grasping a theme and studying it for a long time, immersing myself in a subject before painting it. But after a while, rather than settling comfortably into what I already know, I prefer to seek a fresh perspective on a blank page, to build new stories by opening new chapters.

What are the steps involved in creating the artwork?

The work begins at the foot of a wall that inspires me: I then think about a piece that could be incorporated into it. I freely interpret this work, taking care, however, never to erase the spirit and touch of the original. I first create a preliminary drawing: its framework will serve as the structure for the painting to come. The result is difficult to discern, and people often wonder what they are looking at. Indeed, I work with brushes, oils, and acrylics, using different tools each time: eyeliner, correction fluid, a toothbrush, gold leaf, etc., so as never to use exactly the same method. Painting is a fabulous art; one should never become disillusioned with it but always see it as a playful dimension to which new elements are added.

CHOICE OF FRAME

How do you choose the locations for your paintings?

It all starts with finding inspiring places that express intense feelings. These are often remote, inaccessible places that require climbing a fence or getting lost in the forest… We thus find ourselves in places where time has stopped, with great particularities of language and atmosphere.

How do you associate the atmosphere of this place with a painting?

Every wall that catches my eye evokes an emotion: melancholy, pain, a sense of gloom. I sit down, light a cigarette, and try to connect with the paintings I collect. Sometimes the spark ignites, sometimes it doesn't. Other times I discover an incredible spot but can't find the inspiration to write anything there. I always have to find L'’adequacy, which can also be a contradiction, between the place and the work.

Acting in isolated locations makes the work less accessible to the public.

I'm not a big fan of the approach of Street Art, which prioritizes legibility above all else. My approach goes completely against that. My thing is, first and foremost, to enjoy myself and tell stories in places that resonate with me.

Besides not being very accessible to the public, my painting is ephemeral and disappears over time. In fact, I consider the purpose of my work to be photographic and to end with the taking of the picture. The wait for this image can be long, sometimes entire days, during which there is no there Good light. The result is sometimes unexpected: in Naples, where I feel anything is possible, I found myself locked inside an abandoned palace after setting up a stage on the roof. It was twilight, and after waiting a long time, the full moon appeared, illuminating the scene with a mystical ray. Working in those conditions was incredible! Afterwards, I spent three hours with a lighter trying to get out. That's often the price to pay for capturing a beautiful moment.

So, do you consider photography to be the result of your work? How do you conceive of it?

My photographs express my view of the scene through the choice of framing, and the angle is always frontal so as not to alter the perspectives.

This composition is often planned in advance because I enjoy thinking ahead about elements that will activate the scene. For example, in Lorient, I worked on a series of paintings specially installed on a day of high tide. The idea was to create scenes in which my characters would have their feet in the water and would end up completely swallowed by the sea. It was a totally unproductive approach because I spent months working on it only to literally kill my images as soon as they were pasted up. Phrosine and Mélidore had such a short lifespan that they weren't even visible to the public. My satisfaction then truly came from the creation of this scene.

It's a true photographer's work in the composition of the image.

The challenge is to always push the boundaries, especially in terms of the visual aspect. The assassination of Marat is the result of a desire to work with furniture, in collaboration with Rö. It was a pure artistic experiment, the juncture between the pictorial element and the installation.

In Naples, I sometimes created dumps at the feet of my characters to break up the overly romantic feel of the image. Three drunken sailors watched me throw chairs and tires, bursting into laughter like eternal children. They understood my approach and went to collect all the trash they could find to help me.

Do you ever do the opposite?

I don't wander around with a painting under my arm looking for a place to put it. I always work on a custom basis, tailored to a specific location. This requires so much preparation time that I've sometimes returned to the site of abandoned buildings that no longer exist. I then end up with paintings that were never installed or were thrown away because there's no way I'm going to recycle them on another wall.

I once worked on a Pietà that I had installed in Paris. I went to get a coffee while the glue dried, but when I returned, the paint had disappeared before I could photograph it. I haven't recreated it a second time because it's a unique experience each time, and I have too many other things to do to dwell on it.

NAPLES

What is your relationship with the city of Naples?

The first time I went, I found the city exhausting. But I was lucky enough to return with people who knew it, and I rediscovered it, gradually becoming familiar with it. It's incredible how many sensations you can absorb in such a short time in Naples, where so many different atmospheres coexist at every turn. What stimulates me is working with emotion, and when you find yourself in such a fertile ground, it becomes volcanic! As a result, I was seized by a frenzy of work there; I've never been so productive. The stories in Naples never end, and my connection to this city is very strong. A very powerful bond has also formed with the Neapolitans, a bond unlike any other.

Does painting have a greater resonance in everyday life?

Talking about this is tantamount to talking about perception, and it's always interesting to see how an image is received. In France, if you work with allegories or things that don't offer an immediate explanation, people will reason and therefore confine the work to pre-defined interpretations. In Naples, they take the image for what it is, and it goes straight to the heart! Neapolitans live in a city overflowing with treasures, where you might encounter a Caravaggio painting on a Sunday while going to church. This surely explains their unique relationship with art: they don't just coexist with it, they absorb it.

ART HUNTER AND BRETON SAINTS

Your work focuses particularly on those left behind by the history of Art.

I've often been told that I'm only interested in losers of art history. People generally can't pronounce the names of the German or Romanian painters I reinterpret. However, for me, it's not a subcategory of art. There isn't, on the one hand, the art history of those we remember and, on the other, that of those who rot in the Louvre's cellars. I let myself be guided by emotion, and if a painter moves me even though they left nothing for posterity, I don't care. This probably explains why I often find myself venturing beyond a repertoire of overused works.

How did you discover them?

It's an insatiable curiosity. An illustrator like Sascha Schneider fascinates me; he created incredible things, even though there isn't a museum dedicated to him. I discovered two of his drawings and wanted to know everything about him. This can lead to quite a journey: if I learn, for example, that a collector or a private individual owns a lithograph, I'll put on my best student persona and go see them, pretending to be a PhD student. That's my method for discovering and photographing hidden gems, absent from the internet and libraries, that people keep at home.

You then become an art hunter and bring to light forgotten aspects of our collective memory.

I always reference these painters to honor them and perpetuate their work. But sometimes I also choose not to rely on a pre-existing work, to be in the realm of pure creation. This is the case with my current project, which addresses subjects that have been little or not at all explored in painting: Breton saints.

Apart from a few naive sculptures of churches or fountains, I don't work from any realistic iconography. Thus, my tools are transformed when I tackle these subjects. This allows me the freedom to introduce less obvious influences. To depict a saint, I use the sum of my technical knowledge, grafting onto it things I've seen with my own eyes, like the expression of a woman on the subway. I try to capture the fragility of a moment, a hint of melancholy on a face, and I sketch it in the evening. All of this remains referenced, even if the database is less obvious. No creation comes from nowhere! An artist is first and foremost an observer who tinkers with everything they absorb. As Stupeflip says, it's «"Taking little bits of things, putting them together, and listening to the result quietly in my room.". 

Do you then consider yourself to be doing the work of a historian?

My current work consists of 70% of library research, breaking down closed doors to access rare documents, and gathering testimonies from elders before their knowledge is lost forever. The rest of the time I travel throughout Brittany, visiting vestiges that bear witness to old folk beliefs: chapels, fountains, ruined castles… I'm interested in legends that are slowly dying out and that must be pieced together from fragments, ellipses, and contradictory historical elements. It's a bit like a giant puzzle that needs assembling: many pieces are missing, but this lack of support is the best possible stimulus! So I spend much more time immersing myself in grimoires, Breton hymns, gwerz (Breton laments), or folktales than actually painting… Ultimately, my paintings must resonate with these often remote and legendary places. For example, to find the perfect spot to install Saint Noyale, I had to scour the entire Pontivy region, deep into the forest, before discovering this majestic fountain dedicated to her. Aside from birds and a few deer, almost no one will ever encounter this work. What truly matters is the significance this saint finds in the spirit of the place: she reappears in the very spot where she sought her burial place some fifteen hundred years ago.

Why did you choose to undertake this work?

I strongly believe in the language of the unconscious, which can grip us for weeks or months without us knowing why, then be forgotten for a while before resurfacing years later. It would be a shame to fixate on it. This thing, even if done accidentally, can resonate in your life, as if this concern were already ingrained within you, just waiting for an opportunity to leap out at you. This is the case when you delve into religion or mythology, which often reflect personal experiences. Painting is a language, containing genuine premonitions.

COLLAGE AND THE EPHEMERAL

Why did you choose to do collage?

I prefer what paper tells us, like a page punctuating the life of a wall for the duration of a season, to an indelible statement. I like the fact that it's fleeting: I put my heart into my work, I believe in it wholeheartedly, all the while knowing that it's not meant to last. It's crazy to put up glass to protect artworks! It's as if we're afraid of direct contact between the artwork and people. Yet it's their right to say they disagree. It's indecent to adopt the posture of an urban colonizer with a piece that remains for years, protected by the municipality. Conversely, a work that fades, that is rarer, more fleeting and discreet, can only be more beautiful, can't it?

The ephemeral nature of the work is very important in your work.

Expressing a lasting point of view in the open air isn't really my thing. Everything changes, even your life, even your city. Right now, Rennes looks like a vast construction site, the urban landscape is undergoing a complete metamorphosis, so why try to establish something lasting?

I think it's more interesting to check if a particular collage still exists, even without being certain. The indelible nature of a statement imposes a point of view, knowing it's a lasting mark. Do you realize how many eyes it resonates with and imprints itself on? It's the same strategy advertisers use to hammer their products into people's brains! Unfortunately, that's the direction street art is taking. There will be fewer and fewer ordinary people doing things on a human scale, selflessly, in favor of something bigger and more visible. From a quiet beginning, we've moved to the goal to be achieved.

How important is it for you to resist this temptation?

Every day is made up of tiny concessions to one's initial ideas: while striving to preserve the essence of who one has been, one must check the right hands. I've always refused to enter galleries so as not to allow speculation on my painting, which remains made of dreams and sweat. Street artists primarily appeal to the bourgeoisie: for fifteen years, I've been quietly making my way far from them and the traditional commercial circuit. I won't change course. But, while one can choose to live completely outside this system, one learns that people don't really care. Most artists are on Facebook, displaying things to the world that have been rendered meaningless by... followers who like like crazy. Do I deserve a medal for refusing to do that? No. Do people even care? No. It's something you keep to yourself, like a kind of integrity. But it's difficult to live in a communication system without obeying these pre-established rules.

How do you perceive artists who primarily seek success?

Céline said that creation is putting your bones and skin on the table, giving something of yourself that comes from deep within, and I quite agree with that. But for these art financiers, what does the act of creation truly mean? Why did these works come into being, and what do they truly offer humanity? It's both delusional and shocking to see how far we've strayed from the original meaning of the word "create." And it's now terribly commonplace to observe that art is nothing more than a simple consumer product like any other.

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