Florent Groc

Painting

GRAPHIST & PAINTER

Born in 1987, Florent Groc lived for a long time in Paris, far from the hills of Pagnol and his childhood. Fascinated by their character abrupt, wild and sincere, he handles the gouache and the felt-tip with the aim of remembering them itself, to dressing them of patterns and textures, defining a new brilliant horizon.

Inspired sometimes by Van Gogh’s restless landscapes, sometimes by those of David Hockney in the lively colors, the artist manipulates forms and colors until the abstraction, revealing in fine a simply suggested representation, a personification of the landscape. Just like the Massif of the Star, of which “the geology is characterized by rocks of limestone dolomitique which sometimes look like strange characters.”

By its reference to paréidolies, Florent Groc’s work constitutes a universe based on appearances and individual cognitive experiences, so questioning us about our interpretations of the world which surrounds us.

” A landscape came to find the sky. Although fussed, the sky indicated him a seat. The landscape sat down, looked for a long time for its words, as we look for a season, and eventually speaks: ” I believed my surface established for it; but every new flower – every snowdrop – a new pain is. ” The sky pulled a long face. The landscape continued: ” I ignore where from comes the water white with my brooks, before their source, the blood of my cattle, before their flesh. I forgot how all this was. ” There was a silence. Was it already finished? The sky recovered by spitting a stratus, and made resound a darker voice : “My friend, young men draw since childhood; we have no childhood. People alive see in colors; we do not see. Factories make felt-tips, we make winds to chase out their smokes. Cities make Munch, Seurat, Hockney and Van Gogh; we do nothing. You and I are only volcanoes, spectres of the moon and the green wracks. Suffer that the world slumbers in you – and even, outside you. See, for example, Florent Groc. He lives in Paris. It is a painter.” On these words, more enlightened by reasonings than Egyptian desert, our landscape extirpated a pocket mirror of its handbag, and inspected its make-up. He was beautiful. He was ready.”

Arthur Dreyfus

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