At the end of the path with no points of reference , behind closed doors, Fabien Claude tracks down the end of painting. On the edge of disappearance, in the distance, his unstable mark-haunted night wounds echoe the beats of vital bruises. Without any masks, barriers or safeguards he terribly and miraculously dares to live. No story, nor narrative can take place, and the painting can never settle in. It can never form one body with the canvas. Fabien Claude helps giving birth to darkness, he scrapes out the bottom. Discreet and secret he digs out painting as if he was digging out the the tomb of a God. The body decaying in the endless opacity of the universe. On the final edge of our own disppearance. An attempt to be, to create within the implosion of mourning. Scenes behind closed doors, deprived of horizons. Spots of art are mixing the abyss with painting as magnificent,fragile killers of emptiness, tied up with undeath. Despair fertilizes hopes. Our sight forced into its richest destitution.

Christian Noorbergen