Nicolas Rousseau walks in a dream.
He is completely crazy and eccentric, and lives in a gilded bubble.
He is rich and only works for his own pleasure.
He fires his own Rolex watches in a Swiss fibre kiln from the Alps.
But despite this he is a prince, a gentle soul and maybe a giant.
He works modestly to construct a flamboyant style- erotic, completely insolent, overwrought, rococo, rockery, but on the inside it’s as if the decoration is the subject itself.
And it’s an incredible feat because all becomes light.
Great lunar vases discovering hopeful women.
Green-eyed nymphs that disappear, reappear, shimmer under the glaze.
They are in bas-relief, turning. Erotic, and doll-like. They recall Klimt’s women, their heads crowned with golden scarves of wool.
Incantation. Really, it is a song. A hymn of almost-innocence.
Stoneware, slip, decorated, covered, wood-fired at 1300°
Fine Arts, Toulouse. SEMA course, Hervé Rousseau Henrichemont.
Portrait Lisa Derevycka