The wing remains still. No beat, no sound, no imperceptible breath signals the presence of the foretold angels. Indeed, the angel has left the stage, leaving only its wings behind—as a sign.
Do not lose it. The sign, seized midair by the mold, endures and repeats itself. Diaphanous attributes—the wax membranes proliferate and unfold under the light, forming a strange cabinet of curiosities, most often enclosed in jars. Water has replaced air—at times—evaporating in defiance of the dead wing. The shadow of formalin looms. Preservation at all costs. Perched on their metal shelves, awaiting, they present themselves to the eye of the entomologist—or perhaps the forensic examiner, or the nostalgic artist… In all their states, through all their trials. Burnt, they lie upon their blackened steles, sanctified in their wounds. They fall! A band holds them, so fragile… Have they ever truly attempted to fly ? Gloom. The lamps, so elegant in their downward curve, have supplanted the radiant sun. Fallen from grace, the pointing index has lost all purpose…
What, then, does the wing reveal under the magnifying glass ?
Banished to the realm of accessories, forbidden from use, they no longer serve to move the spirit, which once pointed, designated, proclaimed, guided, fought, struck. To the ideal of height, the intoxication of flight—Icarus has perished. They have lost their meaning. The angel has lead in its wings—the emblematic matrix bears witness, propelled into the air, lifted towards the zenith yet weighed down upon its copper rod. On the ground, packed tightly in a crate, others await their turn. To rise once more. To abandon horizontality. To reclaim their axis and the memory of their purpose. And to no longer lose direction.
Of course, the compass is broken—what remains is the needle in its elongated majesty, set upon its iron trestle. And the protective casing, just a few cables away; and the other elements which, by proximity, converse—even in their oppositions. The thread is not severed. It moves from place to place, from wing to wing. It traces and unveils the currents of energy. Multiple, they irrigate the networks that structure the work. Which then takes on the aspect of a laboratory, where all transformations become possible, where all streams of consciousness awaken. To know. To understand. The studio begins to hum—imperceptibly.
The angel has lost its wings, the compass its needle, the needle its case. Everything is in place to begin again. Like the arabesque of a phylactery, the exchange is restored. The great work may be realized. Conflagration ?
Within its jar, wary, the wing quivers…
Marie-Luce Thomas – 1998
Exposition Alain Quesnel – Chapelle des Lazaristes – Tours – 1998
