Let us seek a whole. Here it is: black background, red background, yellow dominant — gold, rather.
The paintings are lined up before the mirrors of the famous brasserie Le Sélect in Montparnasse. On the mirrors, oxidized in places, our image assigns us a place among them. With this presentation that multiplies our image, we forget ourselves, gaining that the painting be within us.
A bodily experience. Of course, it passes through the eye, but like running water, the presence of Cyb's paintings infuses itself, seizing our body in every part. Let us close our eyes. Persistence of colored tensions. The organization of their rhythm makes us grasp the intention of the title given to this suite of works: Pizzicati.
Let us close our eyes. Let us listen, and that is then to see everything. Then there it is, "the great image." No platitude, no object, but rebounds of touches and notes summoned with mastery. From a golden fire to its appeasement, beneath a voluptuous incandescence, it is the very nature of light that Cyb interrogates. Make no mistake, the volcano is there. The will to deviate from it, to rid oneself of its attributes as well, but the salt of her spirit suffices. It is there.
What binds us to Cyb's work: spirituality, in a way. Spirituality itself, once Baudelaire's Correspondences, Rimbaud's Vowels have intrigued you.
It is therefore to the physical ordeal of a meditation that Cyb's punctuated monochromes invite us — touching us like mandalas — they continue within us, beyond the gaze, their pacified path.