La Mémoire by Magritte

He wrote these words about this picture:

"... the painting is not illustrating the following ideas: when we utter the word memory, we see that it corresponds to the image of a human head. If the memory can occupy a place in the space, it can be inside the head. Then, the task of blood can awaken in us the assumption that the person whose face we see has been the victim of a fatal accident. Finally, it 's acts of a past event, which remains present in our mind with the memory "

 As always, Magritte says everything and nothing.

 

  I met this painting at an exhibition in Munich, 1987 (Kunsthalle der Hypo-Kulturstiftung, Munich). I left with the poster that represented the table, one interpretation, as Magritte remade them, changing them to a detail, sometimes more.

 

It looked like this version, it seems to me that a bird was there on the horizon, but perhaps did I dream later.

I returned with the poster and I proudly put on my bedroom door.

 

 I found this lithograph relaxing.

Through my successive moves in Europe, then I had to part with it.

But I saw the effect it created very often, obscuring the whole, the thing my visitors saw was that much blood task, and referring them to one side scary and morbid or macabre.    The result was a misunderstanding .

Far be it from me to judge. I just justified my attachment with this view: "I'm resting it. "

 

Besides, I've never focused on this task: I have long walked in the table and my imagination often returns.

First there is a head that I have always made for the whole person: a woman with classical features, an elegant chignon Greco-Roman, a calm and simple, which emerges in his face a strange serenity. Just a head, which did not seem more shocking than the Venus de Milo.

Magritte was often inspired by these sculptures, which time had split, and the admiration of civilization as the foundation of our culture.

There has always been a game for the alienation of those statues in his work, so this head on a window has never shocked.

Details have always taken to a dreamlike liberating this ball-shaped bell, just asked, that does not roll when it has nothing to remember, unseemly for me, this sheet, which she moves in different tables, sometimes green, sometimes faded: who says wind said sheet, and still seems strange objects.

 

Then there is a horizon, blur, changing, sometimes sea, sometimes cloud or two, a moon or not, a gateway to something else, other than those heavy curtains drawn, that encadrure geometry. On a version of 1938, a wall is used and from 1945 shows another white separation (see above)

 

There, the blood stain reappears.

The Memory

 

I often come to mind that we are composed of our past, our experiences and our wounds, our serenity comes from our ability to let these scars hurt, live by keeping our wounds and letting them shape our inner life, our dreams are our expressions of this paradox: there can be no memory of humanity and it can be seamless, without blood flowing and gives us a taste of past suffering.

Our serenity comes from this: to accept what we are, without a mask party.

 

the ignorant fairy

Surrealism:

"pure psychic automatism by which one proposes to express, either verbally or otherwise, the actual functioning of thought. Dictation of thought in the absence of any control exercised by reason, apart from any aesthetic or moral concern. "

Andre Breton

 

And then what do we do?

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