Free expression of my own "brutitude"
After years spent in another life “to let me be polished”, I taste a certain pleasure in freedom to allow my “brutitude” to express itself freely.
This neologism, a little barbarian, however remains nearest to what I fell when I am authorized to use clay charged with crushed terra cotta, to translate the silky skin of the breasts of a pregnant woman.
It might be possible that this freedom itself is supported by my home of life and work, so near to the “Facteur Cheval” and his “Rough Art”...
There is something definitely funny in the paradox to feel “influenced” by Rough Art.