Rest assured, this painting is full of rumors, sounds, and melodious tunes that charm without harm. Sometimes there are a thousand fears that vibrate and buzz in our ears, and sometimes, even as we wake from a long sleep, voices lull me back to sleep to show me in a dream, in the parting clouds, this tale by CHARLES PERRAULT revisited so well that upon waking, I beg to dream again…
Opposite, there is childhood. On the other shore, drifting away as the thread of memories thickens. This thread that soaks the little madeleines and roars like an ocean on days of melancholy. Next to the child, there is the wolf. A thread suddenly becomes a tightrope walker in a burst of laughter. The wolf is her friend. Night is approaching. It’s a moonless night full of stars. So familiar… Perhaps we had never really left it. She throws words in the air to play, she throws them with uncertainty, watching them dance in her dress, like droplets curling into the wolf's ear.
Plop plop, they have fun. In silence. Dressed in the lines of Ari EROM, the fearless young girl, draped in vibrant pencils, becomes a storyteller for an evening, with words jumping on the tip of her tongue. The wolf, swaying his hips, discovers hidden universes in the child’s herbariums while silently pouring out his soul to the one who protects him. Discreet, almost invisible, this is how they escape, unnoticed by the rest of the world.
Wandering aimlessly is an initiation. One must find the key… before reading the contours, the red riding hood by ARI EROM revisits this tale by Perrault to change its scope.
Accepting to lower our defenses, watching landscapes change, from asphalt to bumpy paths, from the wolf to the friend rediscovered, from high concrete to the flat horizon of the meadows, it’s the same solitude, from the neon lights to the shadows of the forest bushes. Open the door, erase the walls, slip outside and then leave. The girl gazes at the wolf, the wolf gazes at the girl. For how long?
Behind the smallest blade of grass, under the tiniest straw, they communicate in silence, building bridges, striving to complement each other. No need for words to translate their love telegrams. Some will tell you that the wolf and the little girl are magnetized by the same fears. Under the winds of all things, wheat stalks quiver, reed beds swell with air, garlic flowers turn blue. The moon may well darken under the small mosses, the mint water will soon stray on the schoolchildren’s path, the little girl must return home, her parents await her for supper.
Chords will ripple like guitar and harmonica spikes, the bark of days will be far away, we will be yesterday or perhaps tomorrow. They don't care. We then taste the delights of their solitudes, the vibrancy of their confrontation, the breath of walks sketches a small theater, an animated cloud, in which to immerse oneself, and listen to the world’s soft la.
Escaping perimeters, teasing the cursors, stepping over fences, unravelling contours, living a step always to the side, and then watching, the hour of elsewhere forgetting its guard shifts, and telling oneself that there is nothing more beautiful than this freedom. This is what Ari EROM tells.
