GERALDINE CARIO SBFP by Marc Lambron
In the end it is a question of memory. rystallization, shards, enigmas, effects of absence. bjects whose arrangement is testimony an intention: we can see them, decipher them, touch them. them, we are alive. hey are the contingenc of their durability, survivors of attics, discount stores, odds and ends – alluvium of the past suddenly look. They had a use, a destination. ime transformed them into relics; into questions. See “Memory Box”. Cameras from the 1930s-1945s are assembled as on an anatomical chart. Lens, chromed boxes, focusing wheels that will never activate an roll again. In the past, a finger pressed the shutter release, the silver salts of the film captured a of light. Bodies a surface. At the time of developing, familiar faces were fixed on paper. Nobody can say where these pictures have gone. But the destiny of vestiges is to survive men: images, intact focal. Was it in Paris, Berlin, or Rimini? What luminance secrets love stories? We will never know. From these boxes emanates the double certainty of existence – beings by – and of disappearance – they lost in the labyrinth of time.
When the photographer was well-known, his name was Robert Capa, Gerda Taro or Gisèle Freund. There have been funds, collections, albums. ere, no museum will gather the of these forgotten anonymous people. We muse suddenly about this: the democratisation of photography with mass disappearance. To the stock of intimate images, constituted like an herbarium of itself, an industrial destruction of bodies was going to reply. The era of technique authorized the making of a mimetic , of a narcissistic archive at the same time it organized annihilation of individuals snapshots. Doors were locked on infernos. Those seen became invisible. Géraldine Cario works the point where we beauties Hades orAcheron. She is an orphic artist. She convokes engulf and exhumation, damnation and grace. Sometimes, she fixs body in stratified matter, cervical: thought to dress these widowed mechanisms. We look at her works as much as they look at us. With pupils, apertures, irises, glass, nature and culture conspire a story of the eye.
the series “Angle mort” with its of deprived of faces. These translucent prostheses, these pocket magnifiers have nevertheless been used, in the past or not long ago, to decipher characters, to read through the scented pages of hardback volumes. A pair of glasses is an adjuvant of civilization: the older we become, the more we are to these helpful specs without which, figuratively, we would lose meaning. But some women and men stripped of these media to enter naked in the maze of death; they would never this world where the vestiges of life were piled up in sinister stocks. Traces of absent looks, rims of glasses piled up beyond all salvation – hoping without hope for the future tenderness of a memory.
Because these works are acts of restitution, of pain formed by absence and . “Gustie in Berlin.” Enigmatic title? Perhaps, but also a literal, immaculate re-creation of a fragment of barbarianism rrupting in a intimacy. During Crystal Night, Géraldine Cario’s great-aunt was able to her Berlin apartment in time. But Hitlerian bullies the rooms, breaking the crockery that had been hidden in false ceilings. The floor was covered with shards. The narrative of Gustie, the survivor, crystallized into pieces of fractured , in an imprint that with precocious feeling of the of things. During a move when she was ten, Géraldine Cario thus gathered a shard of golden wood loosened from a tall mirror and put it preciously in a box lined with night-blue velvet. She did it with an acute feeling that life is an incessant separation, in sympathy with what the young girl guessed of , and which incumbent upon her to transmit. No naïve optimism, because there has been a before. What , and what it banished. This before the of an engulfed universe. s far as words could the li that objects or , we would find there Hungarian or Polish grandparents, a lost Mitteleuropa, crossed in , hidden children, a preserved talmudic library, trains leaving for thse confines where, as Aragon wrote, “our century bleeds.”
This memory is singular. It is universal, linked to the destiny of what dies. You think you are entering an exhibition; in reality, you are invited to go through the annals of a peopled solitude that each generation, in consideration of others, moulds and inhabits according to its drama and hope. It is given to us to live. Art is there to let us glimpse that the sky will always be larger than .