The colour is rushing like the heart impulses it's rhythm to the blood,like the river Sorgue unfolds between the rocks and combs the disheveled algae.
The colour, sometimes black on white, although velvety, turns shaggy, bites on the next one,frees itself from its contours, eschews strict forms, overflows , eager to paint the world.
Royal blue, violet, carmine, purple fall in love; green the river, green the weeds, green the windand the grass growing on the banks; the sun leaves pink, mauve, yellow, indigo blotches.
Dominique Limon whose raising strokes, lift to the sky, gives freedom to the palette,
forces us to speak the words, and trimmings and clippings to argue.
As a shepherd, he knows the flock once rounded will follow him when he gives the signal.
Panpipes, his brushes and sables dance on the canvas and the colored meadows,
jostle his shapes and forms, heighten the many colored facets.
In the blur of an instant, the stealthy catch of a nymph, the charm of an ancient dance step, the enchantment of childhood : a bygone time that the sharpness of the line or the acrylic softness fade away.
Faces and bodies encroach, vanishing in a curtain of reeds, like a lattice work that strains and sieves them to oblivion.
Martine Monteau 2008
Translated from French by Jean-Michel Bostroemand Angus Erskine
