Landscapes
by Francis Poictevin
Among all, Mr. Francis Poictevin an artist is sincere and heartfelt. Tormented, perpetually worried about the very purpose of his art, very concerned about the means of expression of the general uneasy feeling, he is among those that grow more towards the final completion of a page, not the surprise of the word or the agreement fortuitous sounds, but by finding a logical word tagging each a variation of the sensation.
The order of sensations that moves through its books is a contemplation of natural things in their agreement with the human soul with hers especially, as an example, because only he can know thoroughly, it does not allow himself outside of divination, he attempts to realize what can happen behind closed gates in a hotel perpetually old, he tries animate profiles of young girls, or silhouettes of people encountered at random races across the landscape, but these beings are figures or symbols designed to mark the differences between him and other men, and to understand the way different to capture and translate the phenomena of appearance, which through its retina reach the brain.
To this we attach a great concern to be true, latent beneath appearances and illusions of female presences, then, that in the writer, by faith, has slowly shaped a way of mystical pantheism full of human movement near waters , trees and skylines: and there will be the key to the provision of ideas with the author of Dreams .
The drama is well understood, that is to say a single person enjoying or suffering by the variation of the minutes of the outdoor life, it is quite useless to Mr. Poictevin to give his books a fable complicated exteriority the drama is always in the books, counterpart: a being suffers or enjoys the reaction of things, two beings united suffer or enjoy the reaction of the present and memories and websites on them, and live a common life completed by the divergent dreams inspire the same facts and the same lines as seen by different brains. The anecdote that makes the background of the novel is almost superfluous in general and Mr. Poictevin happens in this book Landscapes to remove and bind to the juxtaposition of sensations to mention, for their series, the symbol of a year of life without incident other than travel to Paris various coastlines.
two parts: First, Landscapes - that is to say testing in a few lines to make a fleeting appearance.
"It was under a rainy day, the yellow wet Cape Lighthouse, circa Bordighère in the sky leaving a slick citrine reflected in his mid-green iris. Above the sea grew gray lilac band shreds. Gradually the clouds to be left soaking faded, she lay against the sky even more slowly than livid purplish. And the sea was moving into a sumptuous old green-tinted amethyst. "And come alive
and corners of Paris, Menton, Toulouse, waiting rooms where attention is fixed on a particular characteristic to be around which snort vague shapes, sites of Luchon, Pyrenees, Hondarribia, the Basque Country, Britain, Switzerland, the Rhine, Holland, notations in the Bois de Boulogne, on the swans in the Parc Monceau, and sudden, theories on the choice of flowers and a summer in Normandy retailer long runs, stopping to enter the agreement of the native and landscape, etc. ...
this form, the strict rendering of the nature sought by the artist, the pitfall presents itself to the infinite variations of the petty and decor very accurate and the word just does not exist, or that the word found, somewhat technical and heavy, insufficiently renders the slight differences that note, again, danger, as conscientiously as a painter studying the impressionist intimacies of things and changes their color, the eye does not hypnotized and translate more than mere mental impressions and a little diverted. But Mr. Poictevin is almost always pulls these complex problems.
However we prefer infinitely to its Landscapes the New Dreams whose shimmering theory closes the volume. Here rendered more stringent, and the author in its pure lived a dream.
"On the steamer from Honfleur to Le Havre. - In this motley crowd, really embarrassing, that seemed to prevent any contemplation, as this rumor and the trampling covered so little shuddering silence of the water, one girl stood out. She abstained - that to his knowledge, he seemed well - what could have lead to a point even more favorable. - A suit leaving an impression comely, dull gay. I do not know what modesty bathed her eyes, do not drown; cheeks had a yellow rose where moist reluctant to drill a few moles, flavescence of dawn. Eyebrows aside, thin, slightly irregular at birth, but not without a gentle curve indicated in their imagination that will go back down. The nose knows not stood up too accommodating. Clenched teeth kept a smooth pearly pallor. Cute and chin, without advancing, some will say, mutely expressed by incarnadine lips at intervals, pressed, barely chewed. Under the straw hat with upturned brim I see bulging forehead, temples rather hollow, small ears s'ourler aesthetic, as transparent, auburn hair is drawing more than blonde. If
mostly remained graceful pose, while gently, quietly changing. Sometimes the head had a nice little movement forward in a tense watchfulness not. Was she marriageable this girl? point with a mystery n'élucidait redness undecided, penetrating and charming, color last of this face, does not annoying, quite the contrary, the humid haze of bright brown eyes, almost tenderly reserved under their long lashes silky. When she had to leave the girl, I believe - faith more dear, more positive than any science - a quick glance intact sank her stealth to the fan as to what no one would suggest forgotten. "In these
New Dreams, more personal vision adapted to translations of landscapes, as in the previously published book of Songes , the masterpiece of Mr. Poictevin, always places a profound reflection, paintings, aspects crowd into a soul who knows how to craft a personal safe and interlaced. Sometimes, the writer dwells on the almost impossible to fight with words cons colors and lines (the colors and lines are seen as directions its intellectual thought). These visions of civilized very complicated, very Analyst, haunted needs of abstraction, they are good translations of the paintings he is studying? The haven he created in almost lyrical landscapes, and female and imaginary landscapes are they real? It is important, moreover, very little.
Among those who believe that reality exists mainly in dreams, perhaps only in dreams, and that things and beings would be created anywhere and at worst without broad instinct of solidarity, he is one of Poictevin intellectually gifted, one of the best equipped to translate intelligence.
It evokes a mystical manner of Lucretius, and Theocritus have also noticed that the shepherds are a stain on the landscape where the artist chose the pagans placed. At least he knows they do not understand the womanhood of these lines naturist, and that it is better to prune them and their aspirations. His current book is one of the most comprehensive in a work where, except the books of the beginning, everything has a chance to stay in the consciousness and sincerity of the writer and the value of the phenomena studied.
Francis Poictevin does not write like anyone else and has a stylish graphic and sometimes of understanding difficult, but not without a certain charm when you want to take the trouble to deepen. meaning that lies beneath a color that is surprising. As this oriental music which employs tones which shock the ear once it erupts and when it ends, however, accustomed, that we listen first with curiosity and with strange rhythm rocks with penetrating sweetness, the "manner" of Mr. Francis Poictevin has his charms, and the color of his style is delicate pleasure .
"A friend, wife very personal, it is in a chapel of the Virgin or in the bedroom of a dead than to be the fragile tuber. The white flower with a green stem declining bonds with candles burning, and its perfume slowly taking precedence beyond life. The white anemone
Japan, a pearl sprayed into a fabric of East extremely fine. What a pale green satin ovarian hoping the yellow living, fleshy and pale stamens! some petals are pink sweetly, and the contrast of leaf shape similar to the vine, but a green drive, making it more graceful, almost too sensitive a flower without perfume. A close look
the wallflower, she has no common appearance attributed to him. Its calyx is almost purple blush, it leaves blossom petals yellow-red-veined concern, and it opens in a whim. It is, also by its wild perfume without bitterness, the flower of the ruins, its leaves green solid, long and narrow, some purple to the point, seem pretty sunny guardians of the walls. "
There is, in sending a handwritten poem signed and dated 1904: 
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