Yoann Van Parys
Yoann Van Parys
Qwerty Was Painting the Windows White
Afraid that his fingers would be photographed tapping on one another
If he had had his hands up (?!) Yoann Van Parys would have photographed his self-surrounding reality with a hairless brush. A totally nude brush! Rather sexy in terms of a non-in itself-styled superposed bunk bed which presupposes in apparent appearance: Disabused Photography. Abused here, blanched even of its most deceptive silk-screen impression. All of it in the same bed, understandably: super(im)posed.
Since that is what you want, let?s now press PAUSE.
If we had had to give a name to artist Yoann Van Parys, we would unconditionally have named him Qwerty. Yoann Van Parys digitises an improbable nevertheless ? in his hither and thither in nomadderies ? with one of those machines you can buy in superstores (who doesn?t have one, let us ask you: WHO? You?) including lens, pushbuttons, the aptly named photographic device (camera) ? thereby getting that beautiful orgasm, Fucker-Pixel.
Having become JPEG MEN and other selfie simpletons, let us digitalise, and therefore disappear ? the image shall no longer be our memory, no no NO! We don?t want to believe it yet, as we are desperately short of that photographic memory, if you don?t mind. The image is a kind of death, death is an image when you are alive and a living being is going to die, that?s the way it is? What would a dead person do if we gave him/her the possibility of taking photographs, an alienic question? Here may be a there-around of an attempt by Yoann Van Parys. Catching via his butterfly net a subject without an attribute: that memory whose face we keep smashing! That nothingness, vertiginous like (all) time(s). Well well! But it?s 7:37 p.m. already. There, now, at the present instant, in this complex today. There will only be one during that given day; but in a complex tomorrow, one and only one occurrence of that 7:37 p.m.
Geographically Yoann Van Parijs?s photographs are not really locatable, they are practically unframed. But that is never quite true, even if you throw your camera up in the air, but then it points up confrontations, a tree branch with a building ? there are many examples (in terms of photographs as such). Here he puts a small-size image over another larger one, there he does the opposite. Images placed on the floor and leaning against the wall, as though they wanted to situate a: But where can I put them and/or shove them in, as in Go and see if I?m not hanging somewhere else. Let us think of that quasi-autistic, beautiful and beastly (if Jean Cocteau could hear us!) work entitled The Salt Sea (2015), an exhibit showing us two feet clad in Nike Air trainers in full jump, an image placed over another larger photograph bursting a generous sky with as its horizon a sprawling city. Yoann Van Parys flattens, annihilates any possible poetics, without being derisive, one image brings forth another one, one image kills another one. That may be the meaning of his series, witness Lungarno (2015), placed on aluminium slides which are akin to representations of a psychological space-time, positioned one after the other ? we could almost wish to fire at them with Magnum 44, yours truly?s favourite weapon. This is not to us a series of photographs but a set representing one single work and/or hors-d??uvres (parergon), for those who might wish for a gastro-photographic snack until they get nauseous.
To our benefactors-cum-readers of the present disenchanted rag, like a flow of writing by way of a horn raging. Having thus become a flying fowl, a god travestied as a spiritual father has just had his ego trip over again into Joseph Beuys?s hat ? doesn?t even hurt ? since a god doesn?t exist and/or no longer does. More if affinity with felt-tips and marker pens.
Let us get our photographs taken somewhere else, we will silk-screen ourselves later?!
And now let's press STOP
Messieurs Delmotte - 2016