About Juliette by Christopher Myers - A propos de Juliette par Gérard Picoulet - Texts
About Juliette Bourdier,
By Chris Myers, photographer
Starting
as a portrait artist in Paris « Montmartre » in the early 80’s,
Juliette then learned to be a witness of her time, exploring sharing, and
painting the lives of the peoples of Senegal, Cameroon, Zaire and Peru.
A move to southern
Asia resulted in a shift in imagery to
scenes of the cyclic war and peace in Vietnam,
Cambodia, Laos, and Thailand.
Returning
to Europe in mid 90’s, she had several years to experience the tranquil
French, Italian, and Spanish countrysides.
However, over the last five years in Colorado and Telluride, Her paintings have
become more surreal, with colorful, erotic nudes and mystical emotive images
drawn from her mind.
A propos de Juliette Bourdier… par Gérard Picoulet, peintre
La peinture de Juliette Bourdier, si facile à regarder, n'est-elle pas difficile à comprendre ?
Ce qui frappe d'abord, c'est la virilité du trait et de la couleur, mais aussi la douceur des contours.
Certaines peintures sont très colorées, tels des vitraux médiévaux, parfois douces comme des Vermeer ou parfois acides comme des Dürer.
On remarquera, patiemment et sagement peints les extrémités des membres (pieds et mains) dans une inattendue, provocante instabilité, dénotant une sorte de force, de virulence.
Tout ce début d'oeuvre ne relève pas d'un art abstrait mais d'un art construit, d'une gestuelle pleine de lyrisme.
Par la simplicité et la facilité du mouvement, ses peintures évoquent une certaine correspondance avec la liberté de la nature et de la végétation.
Cette présentation donne un excellent aperçu de son talent si particulier, pour ne rien vous cacher.... J'adore
Tarif/Prices list - About Juliette - Texts
Winds,
There are some winds, which pass
through us, go by us and we become their path.
There are some winds, which cast a
spell over us, penetrate us and because they feel at home, they settle, make us
being happy so that we keep them and they become our slave.
There are some winds cold and
biting, which burn us, which brand us as leaving on us the indelible mark of
their stay and we belong to them forever.
And then, there are some pleasant
winds mild and nice but almost dull.
Those we vaguely remember. The kind,
we barely know were thoughtful. All those we forget because they were not strong
enough for us.
My Universe stretches over a barge
that was born at the turn of the century. My sweet prison is built with wood and
iron, she rocks tirelessly on the Seine.
Here, I spend solitary hours, so,
the winds, I’m alert for the slightest one, I soak them up, I live trough them.
My only tie with the outside world,
each of them gives me his benevolences according to his strength, his
development, his past.
There is the wind of my days; heavy
with light and the one of my night that brings dew.
The fleeting wind, which carries
the deep smell of spices. The one of the just mowed grass or the more vapid
coming from spring.
I love the wind from some mornings,
this one that cools, fills me with tangy oxygen, this one that ionizes my brain
and makes my head spin.
I like to look out at it roaming on
the Seine, brush it.
I call him wind, because I Iike him,
and I flatter him to make him come back.
Actually, he’s a little breeze,
light and cheerful which stops sometimes, looks at me with a mischievous
expression of his own, rushes in the wheelhouse,
caresses her legs, whips up her skirt and coats her without her realizing it.
It makes her hair blow, it makes
the windows slam.
He is insignificant and yet so
delicate that I’m waiting, I’m looking out for him, and if he brings me a
piece of leaf in the fall or a petal in the summer, I keep them with me the
whole day long.
And that morning, he is here, smelling fresh-air, life.
Right now, he is here, smelling fresh air and life but I know
that tomorrow he may be blowing snow over some lost mountains for the happiness
of few fortunate skiers and they could catch my river’s smell from the one
which just puffed their precious glove away.
Juliette
Bourdier
Painters,
A
lady is facing us as if she were looking at a mirror. Her vague look goes
through mine and that makes me feel almost uncomfortable. She is so peaceful but
can’t help staring at me. Her hands are quiet and simply lay on her lap. She
sits on a stool, well I think, because I can’t see the back of a chair.
Behind
her, I pick out some landscapes that I imagine being Provence countrysides. A
few olives trees are moving their branches in the wind; a flock of sheep is
grazing in the meadow.
I
can barely distinguish a village glowing in front of a small wood, in the middle
of which stands an old gothic church whose towers soar up into the sky.
It’s
an ordinary day on the earth and it belongs to her life. Right now, she seems
not to care about it, so fascinated she is by gazing in my space.
Also, a man is sitting at her side. He just watches her. If one drew the
path between his eyes and her head, one could find a little spot in the middle
of her hair. There, among the black hairs a precise sunray makes a reflection,
giving to that special point some copper colors. He is so focused on her, that
he doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe he lives through her, maybe she is his only
reason to be in this world, unless he is the proof of his own absence.
Let’s
see, she could be any woman, so what makes her so special? Why am I
dumbfoundedly observing her? Are painters changing the power of people? How do
they sublimate their muse to hypnotize our brains? Maybe they just show us a
stolen instant that we would miss if they were not our witnesses.
Painters
are magicians. They are the wizards of our imaginary, the illusionists of our
reason.
Sometimes
they are witches. I know, I am one of them; fortunately we are not living in the
middle age anymore, if so, I would be burned at the stake of my vanity.
Because
to be a painter you don’t only have to be an alchemist, you also need to be
vainglorious and to believe that your truth is universal, that your colors are
the ones of life and that your shapes remodel the world. To be a painter you
have to focus on some grieves and distresses that you think you are the only one
to really understand. To paint that woman staring at me, you can’t be mellow;
you have to have strong feelings. It could be extreme love and generosity, or
hatred and cruelty, maybe despair, or a hidden madness, often just a huge
egocentricity or rarer you have to be inhumanly strong…if not, only being
under the influence can help you, and
of course, whatever is your way, you mustn’t be aware of it.
I
like to think that we have that sixth sense, if not a seventh, that allows us to
see more and deeper. I like to think that I am a creator, that I belong to a
special caste and that I am immortal. But don’t worry these are just words…
Juliette
Bourdier
Telluride, An unforgettable place
So many places
visited, traveled over, lived in.
So many places where one leaves a little bit of oneself, and takes a little bit
for ones own.
Then, what makes a place different from an other one, what makes it possible to
come back, sometimes to haunt ones memory after years of silence?
I remember this yard in one of the Forbidden Cities of Asia, in Vietnam.
It was a very plain yard that used to be one of the numerous rooms of a temple,
but since it lost two of its walls, it became a yard, well, let’s say that it
looks like a yard to me.
The roof collapsed during the war, but nobody really remembers which war it was,
was it against Cambodians, French, Americans, Russians? So many people fought
over here.
I like to image
a starving-population attack, some pillagers who thought they could discover
incredible treasures and didn’t find anything but famished monks, because
everybody and the riches had already been gone.
Why are my eyes so wet? Is the compassion for a piece of history? Is that shiny
sun burning my eyes, or just all these scattered stones that hurt my knees? Sun
is so hot; I can feel the sweat running along my back following the shape of my
spine. I can sense the cotton sticking to my skin in the middle of my chest.
But, I don’t move. I don’t even try to dry myself with the scarf I hold and
which the weird signs that cover it, print on my palm.
I can touch into my fingers tip, shoots of vegetation coming between the rocks,
and smell honeysuckle flowers running on broken pieces of tiles. I can see
particles of glinting glass that echo the glistened perspiration on my streaming
face. I can taste that blend of tears slipping onto my lips.
I can hear the Monks singing and for some reason, it becomes painful.
This is the funeral of some brothers in arms, and they have chosen to be buried
here, in that field of debris.
I grew up with two of them and they are abandoning me in the middle of a country
in perpetual war.
I accept losing a piece of my life, of my flesh in the rubble of that
civilization.
Me, who never believed in God, I’m crying on one of his ruined sanctuaries.
This is how a place became unforgettable to my heart, as some tourists 10 years
later would be so disappointed to see how the Vietnamese preserved their
heritage and would wonder why they did the trip and what is so interesting in
this lifeless place. They could maybe take a picture of that strange graffiti
showing 3 kids playing together, they would buy some souvenirs brought by
intrepid kids and very fast would think that it is time to go back to the bus
where they will find air-conditioning, TV, 7up and a micro waved burger.
I like to think that Telluride is an unforgettable place, just because she feels
like beauty, quietness, but also because she has a creative artistic community
and gives to each of us the power to be. I will remember Telluride as a big
smile on my face, as a little diamond hidden among wild mountains.
Juliette
Bourdier
It didn’t take so long to figure out that Telluride is a theatre.
It belongs to these animated places in permanent events where a little man with
a red staff jacket comes at the end, turns off the lights and suddenly
everything stops.
I always wondered what happens in the night of the 4th to the 5th at 11:05 in
corned beef cans.
I guess that at the second of the expiration date: the germs attack. If not then,
the flesh says: “I did my time” and let itself become viscous aspic in moldy
blossom. Hoops, I’m losing my way!
Well, now I know! In Telluride, during the night of the last Sunday, at
midnight (to be precise), Cinderella loses her coach, some Gods shut down the
magic power and suddenly there is no more music, no more glitters, and from the
moving away hubbub you
can barely smell some alcohol odors and hear frightening devil laughs.
Here, a few forgotten spotlights show some blank corners, most of the costumes
are back to the naphthalene and bus and car full of people and stuff play the
last scene of the big transhumance.
We take down the banners, we clean up the streets, we close the kitchens, we
cover the furniture with white sheets, we stick over shop doors this cute sign
that says “sorry, we are closed” and we call that by the coded name of the
“off season”.
When I first came in Telluride, I was told that here, we have two seasons:
Winter and July. Now, I know that it is not true; there is a third one, called
the “off season”. What’s that?
Well, I guess that just means that the crowd is gone and the few people staying
will eat the leftovers.
The survivors are exhausted so now, it is time for them to sleep. They will
hibernate to be ready for the next “on season” (that makes four!). And right
now, everything becomes dull and quiet in this new twilight zone that mutates
herself into a Ghost Town.
Streets are empty, shops are empty, and town is empty like a stage setting.
The reason is that the mountain is given back to the elks. They are going to
replace the flashy baggy slipping people with their brown and grey fur. That’s
the nice part; we share the mountain with some native creatures called Elk. They
are not allowed to come downtown but anyway most entertainment is closed now.
The funny part is that many people I talked to, barely know how to spell that
word (and don’t talk about Wapiti) and many more become confused when you ask
a precise description of that powerful mammal, but still, we free the mountain
to let them go through. And then, it becomes like a part-time sharing condo.
Winter is for the snow bum. Spring is for Elks to go up. Summer is for bikers,
fishers and hikers with shiny panties and then, the fall
for the Elk to go back to their winter second house (but then the hunters are
around too, and that’s an other story). I like the idea that we have to give
up our slopes for some animals; I like the idea that the off season is the Elk
season.
By the way, do you know at which altitude a deer becomes an elk?
Juliette
Bourdier
Tarif/Prices list - About Juliette - Texts
A - éclipse (82x158cm) § 2 490€/$
B - dancing in my mind - Je danse dans ma tête (26"x46"/66x117cm) (1*) § 2 180€/$
C - madame rêve - ladie's dreams (36''x36'/92x92cm') (2*) § 2 350€/$ SOLD
D - loin des amours de loin - far from faraway loves (30"x48"/76x122cm) (3*) § 2 460€/$
E - j'en ai pleuré des rivières - rivers (24''x36''/61x91cm) (4*) § 2 260€/$ SOLD
F - comme dans les prières - like in the pryers (36"x48"/92x122cm) (5*) § 1 980€/$
G - les fourmis, les heures passé sans amours sont inutiles - (6*) § 1.100€/$ SOLD
the aints, useless are the hours spent without love (48''x33'/122x83')
H - et même quand tu n'es pas là - even when you are away (60"x46"/152x117cm) (7*) § 3 480€/$
I - on rêvait de jours meilleurs - (36"x48"/92x122cm)(8*) § 2 680€/$
we were dreaming of better days
J - talk to me! - parle moi! (60"x46"/152x117cm)(9*) § 3 410€/$ SOLD
K - nuages de poissons, nous ça ne finit jamais... - § 1.450€/$ SOLD
fishes' clouds, us it never ends....(30"x48"/76x122cm)
L - quand je ferme les yeux, je vois (30"x48"/76x122cm) § 1 680€/$ SOLD
M - a morning on the earth - un matin sur la terre (38"x54"/96x137cm) (10*) § 2 180€/$ SOLD
N - when the Light Comes - Quand la Lumière vient (24"x48/July 2002) (11*) § 1 090€/$
O - Cocoon (20"x26cm) (12*) § 980€/$
P - Orange (24''x36''/61x91cm) (13*) § 1 670€/$ SOLD
Q - Birdy (100x50) (14*) § 1 080€/$
R - 3 nudes 11x14" - Behind the Curtain - Lonely Mermaid - Blue Shadow SOLD § 480€/$
S - études nudes made with black and Gold 60x50cm § 680€/$
T - nature's serie § 680€/$
U - sun's serie § 480€/$ 22 SOLD
(*) included in the shortcut-serie-top-page.
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