What speaks in the Portuguese term "barocco" is the irregularity if not the deformity of a pearl, unique in its deviation from the expected roundness, dissimilar to expectation — like the charm of the impromptu in existence, the irruption of the out of the norm, of the extra-ordinary. What speaks, then, is the unheard-of. A voice from elsewhere? A voice in rupture, in displacement, as the rainbow contrasts with the grey of the rain suddenly illuminated by sunlight.
My painting falls under what I call "Abstract Baroque," because it is a matter of digging into the moment in what is precisely unheard-of about it, singular, unique, "baroque"; "abstract" because the material of this excavation consists first of colors, of intensities and contrasts, then of forms. The question of representation referenced to reality — in the ordinary sense of this word — is only secondary, even accessory, inessential to my approach, even when this question is raised.
My canvases "Venice" or "Kyoto" indeed fall under "Abstract Baroque": a tropical Venice, sensations of a disequilibrium reconquered over the tart flavor of the waves, a Kyoto in overhang that makes red tigers surge from the rocks, multicolored kimonos with the silky folds of stone, and the torrential, bubbling waters, of yellow and pink at once silted over.
The extravagant merely reflects the inattention of habit; for the "abstract baroque" painter it springs from a patient, joyful and loving excavation of the moment.