Do you hear this promise? Do you see these ink-blood-drinking pearls that violate with pleasure? They howl under the golden sun that soon, soon, they will dance under the sparkling crystals of glasses of thirsty strangers. They drink starfish while thinking of fertile weddings. Burdigala has put on her Cannes dress, aubergine wine tinted with byzantium, zinzolin and plum. She walks, her hair drunk with pink branches, the billhook in hand, ready to let the virgin scent of this necklace of grapes flow while the old wine, sad and alone, wiggles slowly in the lair of the cellars, thinking to the renaissance of new wine.
Here, everything is promise. Green Hope has spread its cloak over the leaves where the veins are golden, similar to the tributaries in love with the rivers. Remember rampant Dordogne that when the grapes have put on their wedding clothes the glory of your country is near. The promise of good days has come. The joyful laughter already echoes, in the light of expectation, thinking of the good times of country meals where passionately flow wine and poetry, where the peasants, tied men, free women, have nothing to do except to be happy, where the wind has a dizzying taste of first love.
Here is a work that floats between the dazzling ardor of the colors of Italian painters, the outline of the drawing of the old German masters, and the celestial magic of light and shadow. Around the pulpy grains circulates candid air giving the clusters a third dimension, an image that could become reality, in which one could penetrate. Space and depth. Warm breath of life. We just need to extend our hands to caress these intoxicating spheres, they seem so round and palpable. On this canvas, the author does not want to be a vile copyist of reality, but a poet of scents, shapes, winegrower colors, Bordeaux sensations ... the poet of a promise ... an exhilarating promise: the Harvest.
|Location||Puisseguin en Gironde (France)|