Fran Van Coppenolle (°1998), tumbled out of a world of brick farmhouses, ancestral collections and delicate forklifts. Sculptor. Goddess of fate. Light & Air Navigator. Maker of cross-pollinations, weightless bodies, balancing curves and sailing dreams. Patron Saint of the turret, the suture line and the balloonists.
Surprisingly fresh materials are put under tension, clamped, braided, constricted and strung together until they form elusive, incomprehensible, fascinating objects. Wonderful bachelor machines that throw breathing space into the world without asking anyone for permission.
"Excuse me," someone asks, "isn't that formalistic art, as we called it in the 1980s when we experienced something as empty?"
“That is a fact that is certain,” someone replies, “because it is as Gerard Reve wrote: “People who say that literature is dead actually mean that they are dead themselves.” To which I would add: "And people who say that a work of art has no content because they don't feel anything about it themselves really mean that they should be silent."'
Hans Theys, Montagne de Miel, October 2021
Artists: Fran Van Coppenolle