→ 11 Apr 11 at 9 am
Henri Michaux - Untitled (1964)
There was much that Michaux loathed about the practice of creating art: the whole “carnival” of stretched canvases; the flourish of brushes; the squeezing out of oils in their wormy, squirmy lengths; the whole, vainglorious stew of colours laid out across a palette – in fact, as he, a shy and constitutionally evasive man, saw it, all the sheer, self-important posturing and pageantry of art-making. All that was not for him.
What Michaux preferred by way of materials was something modest and more secretive – such as Indian ink, for example, with which he could make tiny, seething marks on plain paper, marks suggestive of some kind of ultimate calligraphic expression, but which might also suggest, when looked at from various angles, and with the utmost care, the frenzied movements of human beings en masse, or birds in crazed flight, or microbes doing their zizzy-zazzy manoeuvres inside the body’s inner dark. He aspired, somehow, to capture the very consciousness of existence, the flow of time itself.
(The Independent, 05/11/10)