'If I had a word for one, say the painting Cam, then this would be the absence, or its exact opposite, a compelling presence fueled precisely by the absence. Between the two have insinuated the intermissions of life, intermittent heart, the expression of which Proust would once baptized his masterpiece before the capture shows under the title: "In Search of Lost Time". Lost? The Cam was overcharged gained or regained, with the slow and silent stubbornness of the artist, the natural slope that reaches back to origins. The comings and goings of Cam brushes, bristle, brush wood, collage and bending over her paintings so vivid, all suggest a distant lost, inaccessible, and then solved.

But we never found the same country as never bathe in the same river. The water flows, and time as she, who slips through the fingers. No, Vietnam omnipresent, forever, forever. The time that passes, like wind on water, leaves rides.Et under the eye of CAM, under his hand and said precious wrinkles say undulations, watermarks, fingerprints, time folds like a fan behind which it lies in giving himself to breathe the sea air, the colors of childhood, the scent of memory, the light is refracted down by the shadows here.

A look at these works, to admire with envy - that is the heart alive - is precisely the life that erupts, which persists, which wins in the end, like the leaves of Ginkgo falsely vulnerable because of their butterflies made that one day survived fatal flash of Hiroshima. In the bushes outside the workshop of CAM, the leaves have yellow suns acid small winter. On his canvases, aligned, bonded, it is expected that they fly. Then you hold your breath. It is in this grace of likeness and difference that mixed belongs to Cam, a serious light, creating a brand that without weighing. Politeness of hope without illusion. Time passes too quickly. Needless to want to remember. Better to reinvent it. Close your eyes and leaves still clinging to your memory, all the same, not one identical. A text in the accompanying text as a memorial, the artist would be hard to give a literal translation. These are movements of calligraphy and free air, witnessed a good story that sank, has passed without him, he catches en route to him imagine the beginning and end. The aging time. Like his tea bags that have expressed their flavor and do a thread, that of eternity, eternal renewal, eternities of tea, if you want to call a spade a spade, or rather a packet ... From one day to another, and infused life from one day to another, one after another. It is unclear whether this sequence is the surest way to continue living. Hence the wire tightrope. Every moment we can drop and the days we believed Similar prove unpredictable, different, like cutting the wire (the knife).

Cam in Vietnam, from his studio bathed in light at Maisons-Laffitte, a suburb of Paris, Cam at work, haunted by a mental landscape which amounts loop, serial representation of wandering souls, dead to help revive a theory circles find their square. Cam borrows from memory, in this and repay its due trace in evidence eternal. Nothing is lost under his brush. Everything is metamorphosed into a blast of colors, singing, bleeding, who say yesterday and today, claiming tomorrow, which combine the past to the future, unless this is the opposite. Cam dig tunnels, invented matches, Cam hollow inside to the walls of prehistoric times when it was not quite so aware of the extreme fragility of passing time and pleasure ground, here, there, here.