Liberty

I cry,
Lest I laugh

I anchor myself
Or cast myself astray
To die for oneself
And be reborn
In fullness

In these turbulant times
It has never been so difficult
To accept
To appropriate
One’s freedom

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Determined

Determined

I am determined

I put on my best shoes
And found myself cornered,
Walking like a neurotic.
I have spent years bumping into things
Determined
I am determined
Determined, I got back up
Tore the laces from my shoes
And threw them behind me
Without ever looking back
Shoeless I firmly planted myself
Smoked the damned for 30 years
Travelled much
Staunchly fixed
In my nonsensical dreams
Tightly bound to my sense of myself
Lost, alas I lost
My footing in the real world.
One fine day
On the brink of asphixiating agony
Going dry
In a quagmire of my own making
I picked myself up
bit by tiny bit
Determined to put myself
Back together
With perseverance
I stiched myself into one piece
Part by parcel and part
I rebuilt my capacity
To sow within myself
Like a magnificient garden
A planet of blue
Indigo blue
Ultramarine blue.
A renewed desire and excitement
Will guide me evermore
My heart will open
Like a bird of paridise
Takes off into the sky.
Determined, fascinated,
My will can change anything
Starting with myself
I cannot
be mistaken

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Words

le-drap-de-la-princesse
A Sheet for the Princess
30″ x 40″ Acrylic on canvas. 2009

Words

That day
on your mouth
The words
That day
On your tongue
Cannot conjure
The dance of your soul
You can turn them
Every wich way,
Beg them to lay you down
They only grind your teeth
And choke with fury.

Like a cluster of embers
Stuck in your throat
The words coagulate
Like dried blood
Instead of bearing
The fear, the mangled tears
Buried deep,
Once again
Swalllowed

How long until
You dance the freedom that is yours
How long still,
Until until you decide to dance your pride
Do you see this but one choice?
Do you see your smile appear?

The choice is yours…
So chose
The words on your mouth
Choose
The word on your tongue
Choose
The words, the day
Choose
The day that fulfills…
So many choices
Before you, so
Let yourself dance,
Silken is your mouth
Enlivening, your tongue
Your words are the full day.
Your sex is joy
When love fills your words
So choose

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Your gaze

Ton Essence/ Your Essence 24’’ x 36 ‘’Acrylique sur toile Photo Pierre Crépô 1 380$

Your Essence
24″ x 26″ Acrylic on canvas

Your gaze

The heavens are the endless depth of your gaze as
It strips and bares my soul

I want to immerse myself in you,
For there, I meet myself with no end

You quiver at the merest bushing of my hands on your skin

You shudder and flutter like a leaf torn from a mighty tree

Your blood is so hot and your skin so moist
That I am a king quenched at your spring

Liquid, you bear me down rivers to hidden oceans of refined subtlety

Your are of the untamed .
As am I
We are divine

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The centre is us.

Le vagin simple comme l’enfer Vagina Simple as Hell
Le vagin simple comme l’enfer / Vagina Simple as Hell, acrylic on canvas

The center is us

Rallying the minds,
The creative minds,
The foundations are cast in pain,
This pain engraved in our genes,
Which I inhibited,
And which hurts my whole body,
From all those ancients, piled-up centuries,
I needed this for survival,
With no inhibition,
I would not be here today,
But if I want to survive now,
I have to let it live,
Drag it straight up from the abyss,
I just have to feel it,
In the bottom of my soul,
The bottom of my being,
Feeling the pain embracing me,
In front of this outrageous world,
In flagrant decline,
Its futile warfare for gold,
All its vain knowledge leading straight to,
The brink of Apocalypse,
This terrifying, haunting dread,
That crushes me, deep inside,
Like a memory turning me to stone,
Body devastated by fear, of my Forebears,
Taking action,
Ever the hardest thing to do,
Exhausting, oppressive,
Starting over, forever,
Fighting against myself,
So hard is the descent into darkness,
In my own cave without light,
Lost in the cold depths of my soul,
Facing the fear of everlasting death,
Who am I ?
Where did I get lost ?
On my road to survival,
I killed, I raped, I slashed and I slaughtered,
I negated my light, for cheap rags, for junk food,
So as not to suffer,
Forever clutching the sword,
Destroying all along my path,
As if the death of my neighbour,
Was the wage of my survival,
Oh, what a brute I am,
I am the Beast,
The provoker, the predator !
An animal takes only,
What it needs to survive,
But I destroy all along my way,
Leaving nothing behind,
For anybody,
My damned ancestors !
Horrific sights,
I walk on the skulls of my own children,
I enjoy the transient,
Talking myself into,
My unreasonable reason,
I am the warrior,
Dismayed in front of my mother,
Kneeling in front of my father,
Unable to look at my own face,
I am Homo sapiens,
Suicidal, hanging from his shadow.

Baudoin Wart, septembre 2013
Translation Michel Pouliot

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Wart Returns from his Magical Mountain

Photo baudoin

As a child, Baudoin sees the aura of trees and is aware of rhythms all around. It will be years before he realises that everyone does not share his antennae. Today, still propelled by the energies that permeate him, Baudoin Wart explores them, dressing them in pictures, sounds and gestures.

Such is the story of his quest, in pictures, but also in music, in poetry, in body language and social action. He crowns his Art studies at University of Montreal with a happening, vibrant with every form of expression then available: painting, dance, poetry, video, sculpture, music, serigraphy, photography and interaction.

Since then, all his actions and achievements, both artistic and professional, get through this prism, whatever the field he is engaged in. But painting stands firm as his base, his practice, his visual anchor.

At 12, he fills up notebooks with drawings of such obvious talent that he is given canvas and oil paints. At 14, he wins a drawing contest. Afterwards, each one of his artistic revelation allows him to conquer new areas of freedom.

Discovering Pellan, he liberates himself from realism with utter relief, at the very moment he masters photography. From Riopelle, he learns freedom of the gesture, which will become a staple of his paintings. At a Picasso exhibition in Berlin, he is amazed by the variety of media used by the artist: from canvas to iron, bronze, wood, and ceramics, any matter becomes material. From Beuys, at last, he discovers relational art: proximity and interaction with the public.

A punk at the time it meant rebellion, he is involved in the birth of the mythical Foufounes Électriques; he creates happenings, plays the drums in concerts, is part of Peintures en direct (“Painting Live”), innovates in catering, contributes with many artists in music, visual arts and dance; he records dozens of hours of soundtracks and videos, takes hundreds of photographs, designs giant paintings, creates and puts up posters for his shows and those of his friends…

Just then, everything stops.

He gets eaten up by the poster.

“Cappiello transformed the street into an art gallery. Art was coming to the passer-by.” Éditions Romaines, 2010

In fact, nothing stops at all. Baudoin Wart keeps painting, dancing, writing poetry, exploring shamanic rhythms. But the artist gets out of the limelight, disappears from the public eye. He has become a gallerist.

His gallery: Montreal’s construction sites’ billboards, upon which he and his accomplices become the best. Baudoin treats each poster as if it were his own. He demands order, harmony, a true mise en scène. With passing years, every artist, author, musician, dancer and actor in Montreal has an opportunity to be seen on these billboards and be moved by them. And when the time comes to have this wild fly-posting legalized, the entire cultural milieu of Montreal firmly supports Baudoin, their own posting angel.

Twenty-five years later, in 2012, this huge corpus of artwork is the object of a book and 15 exhibitions. As a matter of course, the gallerist also became an archivist, first by preserving with care all the posters that came under his wing, then by depositing them at the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec.

Meanwhile, with his business in good hands, he goes off to build another social happening, which he calls “The Green Wolf”: a country Eden, a kingdom of greenery, a collective healing space in harmony with nature. Purchasing lot after lot alongside a river, he of course ends up owning a mountain. A magical one. Eight years have been devoted to this dream. The narrative of this amazing utopia will too, someday, end up in some publication and exhibition.

“A painting isn’t finished when you put down your brush – that’s when it starts. The public reaction is what supplies meaning and value.” Banksy, 2012

In 2011, when Alejandro Jodorowsky is a guest at Montreal’s Université de Foulosophie, Baudoin Wart is back in town. Like every year, he helps François Gourd and Armand Vaillancourt with the logistics of their fanciful event. So, he gets to be Jodorowsky’s driver. It takes no time at all for “Jodo” to ask his driver to show him his paintings. Under a flash of inspiration, Jodorowsky gives an instant title to some 20 pictures, and, most importantly, he convinces Wart to come back to the public, to get the artist out of the closet.

In June 2013, the public exhibition of the paintings titled by Jodorowsky marks Baudoin’s return on the scene. But of course, this is only the tip of the iceberg. Other exhibitions and publications follow, with several collaborative and collective projects.

Beyond Beuys, the artistic work of Baudoin Wart is contemporaneous through his interplay on every media. In the flesh as on the web, he includes members of his public: artwork is created that everyone can relate to, we are greeted inside immersive spaces, the artist is there, and our interactions create new artwork of which we become authors.

An artist is back among us. From now on, we have the chance – as shown by Jodorowsky –, to seize the visions of Baudoin Wart, so that they lift us off the ground.

- @ -

By Bruno Boutot (www.boutotcom.com)

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