Window view
Alexandre Lavet, Peanuts
Exhibition view
Exhibition view
Alexandre Lavet, Colle blancheAlexandre Lavet, Colle blanche
Alexandre Lavet, Excerpts from summer
Alexandre Lavet, All the good times we spent together
Alexandre Lavet, I sit a lot
Nicolas Moreau, Fugue
Exhibition view
Alexandre Lavet, All the good times we spent together
Nicolas Moreau, Fugue
Nicolas Moreau, Fugue
Alexandre Lave, Learn from yesterday
Alexandre Lavet, L’introduction frontale
Nicolas Moreau, Je n’ai pas fermé l’oeil de la nuit
Nicolas Moreau, Je n’ai pas fermé l’oeil de la nuit
Alexandre Lavet, All the good times we spent together
Exhibition view
Exhibition view
Alexandre Lavet, Dürst Britt & Mayhew
Exhibition view
Alexandre Lavet, Les oubliés
Alexandre Lavet, All the good times we spent together
Alexandre Lavet, NECA 0304
Exhibition view
Nicolas Moreau, Je n’ai pas fermé l’oeil de la nuit
Exhibition view
Alexandre Lavet, Les oubliés
Alexandre Lavet in collaboration with Marine Peyraud, A dedication to my mother
[…] If man were to invest in whistling everything he normally entrusts to words, and if the blackbirdwere to modulate into his whistling all the unspoken truth of his natural condition, then the first step would be taken toward bridging the gap between ... between what and what? Nature and culture? Silence and speech? Mr. Palomar always hopes that silence contains something more than language can say. But what if language were really the goal toward which everything in existence tends? Or what if everything that exists were language, and has been since the beginning of time? He is again Mr. Palomar gripped by anguish.
After having listen carrefully to the whistle of the blackbird, he tries to repeat it, as faithfully as he can. A puzzled silence follows, as if his message required careful examination; then an identical whistle re-echoes. Mr. Palomar does not know if this is a reply to his or the proof that his whistle is so different that the blackbirds are not the least disturbed by it and resume their dialogue as his nothing had happened.
They go on whistling, questioning in their puzzlement, he and the blackbirds.
The blackbird’s whistle, p.26-27, Palomar, Italo Calvino, A Harvest Book (1985)