ABOUT ME
Bastian Sinsé
Delicate thoughts.
Delicate thoughts.
The idea often occurs to me that it would be much easier to dedicate my time to painting with the intention of being liked. The path would be straight if I worked to be what, objectively, would position me as an authority to any audience: to reproduce what has already had value or a combination of images from the past. If my painting were demonstrative and sought to communicate an easily accessible aesthetic, an ode to figuration, I could have more superficial conversations, in which I would not have to open up my most intimate nooks to people who have no intention of delving into various topics. Life becomes complicated for me when I accept getting lost, being able to follow the path that the past has laid out, because let's not lie to ourselves: the human eye constantly seeks what it knows or recognizes. But despite everything, I am fascinated by abysses, by delving deep and trusting that, no matter how long the storm, the light will always return; by seeing the horizon from the top of a tree; the waves breaking on the rocks from the depths of the sea. My painting is born from the deepest chaos and leaves a memory of my discovery after wandering through the eye of the hurricane.
Bastian Sinsé
Delicate thoughts.
Delicate thoughts.
It is true that the limits of language can oppress many hearts that desperately feel the need to express themselves, to delve into details and emotions that commonly used words would never dare to glimpse. But, to be honest, even if we had the words capable of describing our deepest feelings, we would not easily find people with the art of listening and venturing into our most intimate madnesses with the curiosity of someone looking for shells on the beach. It is true that the static nature of the old dictionary, with its solid and often sterile definitions, makes it enormously difficult for the mobility of words and the ideas they contain; and even more so if we are talking about those abstract, throbbing ideas that patiently await someone to give birth to them.
Hence the birth of poetry and the human need to leave gaps open for interpretation, to leave space to read between the lines, knowing that a work is lived and felt by two. It is a relationship that gives life to those who allow themselves to experiment with their different sensibilities towards the other, the one who disturbs our calm. The meeting of two old plates that generate new landscapes.
This relationship that is created between the two creators gives meaning to the work: the artist and the public, the sender and the receiver, resonate without even having to agree in the face of the resistance that the work is, a gesture of generosity that crosses times and spaces giving value to life.
A love relationship between different worlds by means of some strokes, a set of interpretable traces for those who know the puma and its walk.
Hence the birth of poetry and the human need to leave gaps open for interpretation, to leave space to read between the lines, knowing that a work is lived and felt by two. It is a relationship that gives life to those who allow themselves to experiment with their different sensibilities towards the other, the one who disturbs our calm. The meeting of two old plates that generate new landscapes.
This relationship that is created between the two creators gives meaning to the work: the artist and the public, the sender and the receiver, resonate without even having to agree in the face of the resistance that the work is, a gesture of generosity that crosses times and spaces giving value to life.
A love relationship between different worlds by means of some strokes, a set of interpretable traces for those who know the puma and its walk.
The distinction between "reproduction" and "creation."
I understand that painting, dance, or music are used to communicate, because we know the limits of language and the freedom allowed to "art" is enormously greater than to limit itself to communication. There is no doubt that art makes bodies resonate, alters the senses and generates desires to live more intensely, but I have the obligation to write down my nuance against this widely used word.
art is not a means of expression, it expresses as a consequence.
art is not a means of expression, it expresses as a consequence.
Certain things in the world cannot be forced, they are born from the depth of the intimate. We can all give life, but we cannot foresee the effect that a child's sincere smile will have on the one who observes them. Something similar happens in artistic creation. With the most elaborate technique, you can force, reproduce, represent images from the past, reinterpret them for productive purposes, combine and restructure them to communicate preconceived ideas, generating desire and thus using a specific cultural aesthetic to communicate a message. You can project perfection and even believe you can achieve it, but those desires for control are nothing more than the identity of the culture in which we live and have nothing to do with art.
Art communicates, expresses, proposes, and exposes itself by nature, just as the sun shines and water is wet, but it is not its purpose, but its consequence. It makes us feel and live intensely, of course, but its trace is nothing more than the memory of its passage. The experience is subjective and non-transferable and this is the true utility of art: to sensitize our perception to give value to what is lived, in the everyday, in the individual, in the subjective. It is the most fertile gesture for the development of a healthy collective, of individuals who feel and live differently, but this is another topic.
In front of a work, we can discover ourselves, naked. “Great art” is an act of pedagogical generosity, because we share the most intimate part of our sensitive madness in a technical way and as an audience it encourages us to make it our own, to be creators of the image and to finish the work that the artist began, thus assuming our difference as he assumed his own.
Art communicates, expresses, proposes, and exposes itself by nature, just as the sun shines and water is wet, but it is not its purpose, but its consequence. It makes us feel and live intensely, of course, but its trace is nothing more than the memory of its passage. The experience is subjective and non-transferable and this is the true utility of art: to sensitize our perception to give value to what is lived, in the everyday, in the individual, in the subjective. It is the most fertile gesture for the development of a healthy collective, of individuals who feel and live differently, but this is another topic.
In front of a work, we can discover ourselves, naked. “Great art” is an act of pedagogical generosity, because we share the most intimate part of our sensitive madness in a technical way and as an audience it encourages us to make it our own, to be creators of the image and to finish the work that the artist began, thus assuming our difference as he assumed his own.
Art is all that remains to us, as humans, of what is natural.
Bastian Sinsé
Delicate thoughts.
Delicate thoughts.
.
Meeting place
Emotions concentrate, often leaping like a needle grazing vinyl; my concentration fluctuates and the void opens, that's when I fall. Here it is the gesture that traces, the mirror reflects my image and the elevators begin their emotional dances, making the stroke a testimony and a trace, while going up and down they make me their faithful puppet. My delicacy, my greatest pleasure is to be a witness to the action that takes shape, it is to observe how this chaos organizes itself in front of the eyes of the one who looks, in front of the ears that listen, and for that, obviously you have to know how to listen, you have to want to see the macabre poetry that hides behind our skin, to read between the lines, to dialogue with silence to see beyond our identity; to see beyond the socially accepted forms with which I identify, and in this way to reveal their rigidity, to reveal their rot, and thus to glimpse the absence of the creative movement that life represents. Only in the fall can we look squarely at the state of our own shadow.
An incomplete story
The image that emerges from this gesture resembles me, not me, but the states I go through during the creative act; it is the place where my great rest materializes, and I say rest because here I can surrender to the gravity of my madness and leave aside the monotony of my identity, to which only my sane self gives importance, spending the day surrounded by sane people who desperately try to maintain their composure. Don't confuse me by romanticizing clinical madness, such states of suffering are neither desire nor liberation, although as I will develop later, that cry is intimately related to the creative need, indispensable for every body; here I speak of the madness of the poet. This visceral fall that the poetic act represents is my resting place, a place where I remember, once again, that I am the matter that alters the color of such a focus of light; light that is projected without image, judgment or morality and is soaked in the sensitive composition of my body to conclude by revealing the changing state of my soul.
Shadow play
Whale vomit · 2021
Whale vomit · 2021
I found it floating in the sea, they thought it was garbage, it turned out to be more valuable than gold.
SCRIBBLE #A gray day
Emotions push the engine, I laugh, I shout and I continue; in my mouth melodies and sound effects are mixed, the mirror delves into my matter, alters it, my body transmutes and consequently the medium that collects my strokes also does; gestures follow one another without apparent connection in a terrifying intimacy. I welcome the chaos, the body wanders, the mind gets lost and the gesture shows itself as a refuge; I stop, the intensity rises, vertigo. I observe my fall, fears impose themselves, my mind desperately tries to find a place to identify with, doubt annoys; unable, I ask myself: "Why do I inflict such torture on myself?". Having forgotten the pleasure of being a vehicle for something bigger, the memory of my body and its language urgently try to find the figure that will allow me to access the praise of others' judgment, and therefore here I am alone and I do nothing but dodge said figure. It hurts, I enter the phase of discomfort, "what I'm doing is worthless," "what am I playing at?"; existential crisis, "I'm lost," I cry. "Trust yourself" I hear, "trust yourself" I repeat. I continue and the stroke makes more and more sense, I see its eyes, the first surprise; I drink its tears, the dialogue begins; I ask, I answer, I suggest, I erase, I assume, I scratch, "continue!" I hear, the surprises continue, I wait, I stop, and "continue!" I repeat...
Scribble to see yourself in the mirror of your own stroke.
The scribble is poetry that radicalizes experience, a stroke, a state in expansion that goes beyond drawing; a sensation on the surface of the skin that makes the action unique and destabilizing; a breath that imposes a step into the void before taking the fall as an impulse; the scribble hides in the imbalance that precedes each step. It is a provocation that shakes preconceived ideas, the insolence of certainties and the immobility of dogmas, which desperately try to take root under the skin. Scribbling is a cure, a permission to move forward, a risk-taking that does not promise results, a fertile ground for the germs of renewal for the sensitive eye. The scribble is chaos, an indispensable place of passage, inseparable from becoming another, a place of intimate learning, a self-taught impulse; a space where knowledge has no merit; where you recognize the state of your gestures in the mirror, a place where you hear: "You can do anything, but first, fall," and you expose yourself to what escapes you. An act of trust and confidence, a place of danger for the fixed idea that thinks it knows, a place of enjoyment and pleasure for the one that lets go. Epoche.
The attitude becomes a means, impulse, breath, gesture that places us in action. By scribbling, we exist without approval, the gesture traces and inhabits the space and, without signing, I am already there. This inhabited gesture can be committed and assumed through the scribble. It is dramatic when we give it that meaning, it is joyful when it is the smile that traces. As a consequence of every committed experience, it becomes an enigma. This gesture explores the limits of any technique that gets confused, and it is, if allowed, an extraordinary learning method.
The attitude becomes a means, impulse, breath, gesture that places us in action. By scribbling, we exist without approval, the gesture traces and inhabits the space and, without signing, I am already there. This inhabited gesture can be committed and assumed through the scribble. It is dramatic when we give it that meaning, it is joyful when it is the smile that traces. As a consequence of every committed experience, it becomes an enigma. This gesture explores the limits of any technique that gets confused, and it is, if allowed, an extraordinary learning method.
Initial Triptych
Origin of my world · 2018
Special thanks to Juan Azpeitia
Origin of my world · 2018
Special thanks to Juan Azpeitia
The beginning of my artistic practice was born with this triptych.
It was in this building, built with memories of the past, where I saw an elephant named Leon being born. It was the 40s, not far from the Villette slaughterhouse, in Paris, where this character, abused and deformed by the war he had just suffered, hid, silent, on top of that somewhat out-of-place rooftop. He had been the experiment of what would end up being called cosmetic surgery. A "gueule cassée" (broken face) among so many others who, unrecognizable, lost their identity at the same time as their image.
I met him in a lucid dream, where I often returned to listen to his stories. "That world in which we rose was made of stories, —of stories and desires—," he used to whisper. Thus begins the story I owe him.
It was in this building, built with memories of the past, where I saw an elephant named Leon being born. It was the 40s, not far from the Villette slaughterhouse, in Paris, where this character, abused and deformed by the war he had just suffered, hid, silent, on top of that somewhat out-of-place rooftop. He had been the experiment of what would end up being called cosmetic surgery. A "gueule cassée" (broken face) among so many others who, unrecognizable, lost their identity at the same time as their image.
I met him in a lucid dream, where I often returned to listen to his stories. "That world in which we rose was made of stories, —of stories and desires—," he used to whisper. Thus begins the story I owe him.