

'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.