Eau courante, “ Running water ”. The title of the first work intrigues considering what we see. Well, says Brigitte Pazot, the fact is that this water has nearly disappeared by dint of running, running over the stones. But see how intensely present it is within the complex marks of its fluidity that border on writing. Look, on the granite like mass, at these sparse and hardly showing microscopic organic presences, look at these signs, runes, ideograms, seemingly picked up by an archeologist on a tracing paper, look at these remnants of ancient poems, at these regrets of fish and seaweeds, memories of an ecosystem already rarefied.

Some fascinating and frail creatures, fortunately, are still wriggling in the dazzling depths (water or air?) of Fugitif présent. And at the heart of matter, vital energy abounds and buzzes, like these tiny branes that the modern string theory supposes, eager for bringing together the laws of the infinitely big and the ones of the infinitely small. The mere idea of them rejoices the Esprit vagabond, with its robust and creamy neurons.

Like the new insights of the theory of matter, of neurobiology, of astrophysics, these intensely suggestive universes worry and delight. Shall we dare venture ourselves at the Horizon d’événements, at the very edge of the black hole (of our mortality), and bend over the membrane that matter and light can cross so easily one way but never when returning? It might be that, on the other side, it is not black but pink, like in Point Zéro…

Anxiety/impulse, materiality/evanescence, front/back, many of the latest works by Brigitte Pazot call at each other, converse with each other, answer each other. Tsoin-tsouin inverts and carnivals In Petto. On the overheated background of Migration, a whole culture is going up in smoke, oriental signs of an extreme grace fray and disintegrate, leaving behind only some black coals and the feeling of having lost everything. On the contrary, A découvert, seen from above, as the crow flies, is the country of good men, the country of the large river with bubbling and chattering banks, a land that one can go through with pride and a cheerful heart. Utterly different, obviously, is the empty and slashed arena of Mots suspendus, scratched with pins, needles, hooks, spears, deprived of language by violence — at the lower edge of which, hurt, imagination would like to recognize hills, a village, a humanity.

Eventually, in a kind of fusion of the opposites, the Pierre levée with long hair stands up, light and completely restored to a ferruginous vitality, in a space made denser by thin and regular hatches. And, in a maelstrom of organic events, Simultanéité exorcises the anxiety of sterility, of evaporation, of carbonization.

In the end, in A fleur d’eau, water has the last word, retained, boiling, liberated water: majestic water.

The origin of everything is the riverside, from where Brigitte Pazot gazed at the running water, at the waterworn stones, polished by the current, keeping in their veins the memory of mysterious signs and lines.

The copper plate, scratched, bitten, attacked by acids, is the stone, the superimposition of the different plates suggesting water.

A mysterious exchange is taking place, and the stone speaks: look at these snatches of writing that feverishly run to the borders.

The stone has a secret agreement with life, with the blue of waters, the worried green of phytoplankton, the ochre of the sands, and that is all that Brigitte Pazot, venturing with colour, wants to convey.