ZAHO
BackTristesse - Zaho de Sagazan
I never paint in black. I’m one of those who ran out of black paint and replaced it with blue. But here, there was black—there was only black. Outside of my bursts of creation, I had heard that warm grey in her voice. But I was surprised, once inside my musical bubble, to hear nothing but black. No linseed oil, a dry canvas, working flat. The song was changing my entire way of working. And that watercolor-like black filled my canvas. After the first session, the whites revealed her cynicism. Cynicism about her own life. Cynicism about her own life? Control. In the second session, it was still that black I was hearing. It turned into greyness, the face softened. Sadness appeared, but I lost it. Cynicism became anger, but I lost it. I was losing her porcelain face, where life had not yet carved its hollows and its meanders. So I plunged back in. I never truly found her again. But I reached that ridgeline. Where we must hope to remain, to fall on the right side. To control. To stay alert. So as not to tumble down the other slope. Original text in French, translated by AI