A venerable catalpa, a natural sculpture with long, slender and fascinating winding branches, no longer shades the small terrace of Moli d’en Cassanyes. It overhangs the pool formed by the waters running down from a brook that has its source in the Albères in Roussillon. The mill has been idle for many years. The wheel is home to a charming cave-dweller. This small Catalan king rules over his realm. A ripple on the blue-green water signals a snake, dizzy with sun, in search of shade. Wind stirs up the branches of two monumental plane trees planted two hundred years ago.
This is where Sébastien Frère lives and works. A place crowded with memories. When one is the son of Henri Frère, a close friend of Maillol, one is not alone. I imagine the two sculptors strolling under the foliage, through the acanthus, in this free and natural garden, home to Earth gods. Perhaps here was born the desire to illustrate Virgil. And the strong presence of the mother of Sébastien is also witness to the memory of the poet Joseph Sébastien Pons, her father, for whom the grandson is named. Here, Sébastien goes back to his Catalan roots and his name: Sebastià. Here are the sources, the pollen, that enrich the Catalan body and soul. These roots nourish the tree.
This man, an artist, puts his tools to good use: his vision and his manual skills. Pottery first, which he practiced for fifteen years. I know other painters who have worked with clay. They carry the scars, recalling the Stone Age and when man first discovered fire. Sébastien Frère is one of them. I can see in his painting traces of much older crafts: imprints, carvings, engravings, layers, moving colors. Everything is symbolic. We have no need to know whether his vision dictates the way his hand moves, or how or why it produces scumbles, scratches, erasures or transparencies. No, the painting is not by chance, but by a man who has learned from experience, and who invents.
Criticism is not my field. When I see a work of art, I remain silent. I can feel it, and absorb it better that way. To express my feelings would be to invalidate them. It is useless to come back to the same old question: abstract or figurative? Since the Fauves and the cubists we are aware that the subject does not make the painting. The work itself is the only thing that counts – not the apple or the Mont Sainte Victoire.
A final word: Sébastien Frère, ceramist, fire-master, has the gift of cooking food. His dishes are edible works of art. Here again, we find a special Catalan talent, a knowledge that is embedded in racial memory. A good eye, a sense of smell, a sharp ear, taste, technique – these five senses are in action, in this country of epicures where the highest art is to live well.
Frédéric Jacques Temple
from the exhibition Aigües, 2008
Traduction Pamela Knight