Traces
Series that follows on from Schmates and Thresolds.
- The forms fade even more, leaving on the canvas only a slight imprint of the bodies
-Work on canvas with Indian ink, engraving ink and pigments.
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Sheets, sheets stretched over tarpaulins or hanging sheets. It is necessary to raise the head, estimate the dimensions, examine the suspensions, pass between the works to recognize the materials, sheets, pillowcases, rather than the technics : collages, overlays of lace, mesh, paper, on linen or cotton sheets, openwork, overcast, torn but still used.
The light touches the overlays, plays with the folds of these sheets without primer.
Washerwomen, Catherine Ifergan
Sheets, sheets stretched over tarpaulins or hanging sheets. It is necessary to raise the head, estimate the dimensions, examine the suspensions, pass between the works to recognize the materials, sheets, pillowcases, rather than the technics : collages, overlays of lace, mesh, paper, on linen or cotton sheets, openwork, overcast, torn but still used.
Formely Feminine universes, diversion from an annual ceremony of dirty and clean, spreading out before washing and not after, exposure of an intimate, of a family, a known or unveiling of tasks, imprints, or living being?
Mending by Catherine Ifergan
The light touches the overlays, plays with the folds of these sheets without primer.
The rags come back to life. The bodies blend, between figurative and abstract.
The rags find their place.
The lace is exposed.
The mesh supports, the tar paper protects.
Every discovery moves.
The overlays create an order, organize a framework for each work.
Emotion does not overflow.
-Each work keeps its gravity.
By dint of ravages,
It becomes unique,
while echoing the whole series.
We move away,
we no longer see the materials,
we no longer recognize bodies,
we discern shades,
the diversity of works,
the unity of the compositions.
The eye enters through all these doors.
We stay on the threshold…
Critical text, by Olivier B
Hence these pains ... Can we paint after the Holocaust? Paint the very trace of absence. Paint the absence of traces. This is precisely the dilemma that NKF seems to be struggling with. And it is this debate that is at the heart of all his work. Life at home seems sweet to us, but sweet behind the barbed wire. NKF paints on the razor's edge with the blood of our wounds. She weaves her canvas. His star. But she is not talking about Jewishness, just our survival, all survival. It is not surprising that after Rembrandt and Soutine, NKF in turn attacked the skinned beef. But, going back to the Rembrandt painting that we can admire at the Louvre, have you noticed, behind the ox, this woman, present and yet erased? All of NKF's painting oscillates between these two contradictions. Death screaming its truth and life, in the comforting background as much as it can be. But who really can console the murdered beef? NKF? Who knows...
