Leroux Bio English - La Nouvelle Galerie de Saint-Quay-Portrieux

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 presents...  Françoise Leroux
A different vision...  A different path...

She is believed to have been happily retired in Binic-Étables-sur-Mer for the last twenty years. Hidden somewhere in a corner of her studio, not sure herself where, are prizes, awards, distinctions, even medals, a testament to the fact that François Leroux is a known and recognised artist. She has exhibited in Paris, at the Carrousel du Louvres for "Les Grands Maitres de Demain" and at the Grand Palais, in Geneva, Brussels, Strasbourg, La Baule, Giverny ... And of course, in Brittany. Ah, Brittany! The sea and the hills clad in rapeseed gold and parma flax flowers
It is said that behind the beautiful smooth and serene face of Françoise, everything is only "order and beauty, luxury, calm and voluptuousness". After all, she has a diploma in floral art, so no reason to be suspicious. So recklessly, we open the big book of her life work

And it's an explosion of shapes and colours that jump out in your face, shapes that collide with screams that astronomers say they can still hear the echo in the silence of sidereal nights. Her painting portrays the horror of the end of the world. Or the wonder of creation. Demiurge, Françoise enters into her paintings, she becomes one with what she creates. Her painting is a melee of matter and colour. She paints as she sculpts: feverishly, as if pressed by time. In her haste, she brings up from the canvas, with her fingers, with the palm of her hands or sometimes the blade of a knife, blocks of stone splattered with blood; she boils rivers of lava, orange ochre, which escape, furious, from the gangue where they were trapped; in Françoise’s universe, the sky and the sea merge, collide, clash, cerulean clouds against cobalt blue waves. No rest in her creations. The flowers, when she paints them, even the flowers quiver, impatient, as if about to explode.
From this painful melee, Françoise emerges exhausted, emptied. While wiping her hands to remove the traces of tar and paint, she thinks, smiling, of Zoa Wou Ki, this Chinese painter, who mattered so much to her and who once told her, looking at the works that she was coming, shyly, to show him: keep going! She also thinks of Nicolas de Staël whom she admires and of Pierre Soulages who taught her that black could also be rustling, movement, source of sounds and lights.

In the large book of Françoise Leroux's works, there are also sepia-coloured washes, strange creatures, half-birds, half-crickets or leafhoppers, silent witnesses of the great upheaval, trapped in the original gangue and which stare at you sometimes with a big round eye, amazed.

After closing her book back, you will realise that Françoise Leroux's painting is above all radiance, rumbling, palpitation of a beating heart, movement ... Well, so what? Isn't this what life is about?

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