1995-005Z3
On the right wall : Poem/ Monique's testimony.
LORD, HERE'S OUR GARDEN OF PRAYER
I have often chosen to paint
To disguise my thoughts
For my voice could reveal you
And my people were angry against you.
I thought that his heart would be calmed
As it goes so often with emotions;
Brisk mute outbreak, rebellious and short,
For my people often do not know how to explain themselves.
The years have passed
From metaphor and counterpoint
In esotericism and counterfeit-ways
I lost the key to my own symbols.
A long path of isolation grew heavier upon me;
I walked smiling for the children
Like my ancestors had taught me.
Then our children grew up.
Their silence was no longer one of helplessness
But of cold anger.
Any reference to your Name kindled hatred.
Our people had fine hearing:
A silence, a discretion, at the right time
And anathema was spat in my face.
I had not painted for a long time.
I still wore the national dress, chin up
I knew that my unfailing enthusiasm was crumbling at the heart of my being.
But instead of understanding, I began to suffer;
Under the onslaught of my friends, I felt that it was not the artist that was targeted any more.
My originality served as a guarantee...
I smiled more, but in silence now.
Under the proud forehead of my ancestors
Concern had come to define me.
Like a sleepwalker, I began to walk.
Insidiously, anxiety had numbed my mind.
Your Name was leaving me at the same pace as my own
Until the day that I realized that I could not even see my hands.
I did not want to die;
I regretted being.
The bitterness of my people
Was the colour of the days and I did not notice it anymore.
I had lost my language
Without having realised it.
But then yours came back:
''Father, why hast thou forsaken me?''
With this gesture of distress openly stated
A new smile was born on my face
A sad and trembling smile, but sincere.
For days and days, I repeated your words.
From the bottom of my retreat
Where I had taken refuge
Since the time
Where I had found myself in pieces, disjointed.
A sad smile of complicity,
But a sadness with a human face,
Who was comforting me.
When I saw that I was in the desert, I began to scream.
''Lord, push aside this chalice from me!''
''Lord, push aside this chalice from me!''
From the depth of my sadness, a small incomprehensible joy
Was inhabiting me gently; because I had cried out to God.
I never thought that a simple person like me
Could cry out to God
In an outburst of no return.
May I never forget this day!
Aloud, I repeated constantly and every day your words.
The image came back, I saw colours.
An extraordinary purple and an old olive tree.
''God, push aside this chalice from me''... and gradually it was smiling from the inside ... If you want ...
But your will would be better
Because mine does not look like anything anymore.
After remaining in your womb
With these only words
For a while ... that I was not anxious to interrupt
I understood what the desert was and I loved it.
When I came into the world
It was you who healed my brushes,
Our symbolic had become my language
And I saw more devastation outside that in the desert.
There is much to paint
For whom that speaks his own image
And does not let himself be deconstructed
By camouflaging in them.
Without any merit
I am limpid in my joy and my weaknesses
Because I live of your heart
That beats instead of mine.
December 20, 1988 Monique Jarry)
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LORD, HERE'S OUR GARDEN OF PRAYER
I have often chosen to paint
To disguise my thoughts
For my voice could reveal you
And my people were angry against you.
I thought that his heart would be calmed
As it goes so often with emotions;
Brisk mute outbreak, rebellious and short,
For my people often do not know how to explain themselves.
The years have passed
From metaphor and counterpoint
In esotericism and counterfeit-ways
I lost the key to my own symbols.
A long path of isolation grew heavier upon me;
I walked smiling for the children
Like my ancestors had taught me.
Then our children grew up.
Their silence was no longer one of helplessness
But of cold anger.
Any reference to your Name kindled hatred.
Our people had fine hearing:
A silence, a discretion, at the right time
And anathema was spat in my face.
I had not painted for a long time.
I still wore the national dress, chin up
I knew that my unfailing enthusiasm was crumbling at the heart of my being.
But instead of understanding, I began to suffer;
Under the onslaught of my friends, I felt that it was not the artist that was targeted any more.
My originality served as a guarantee...
I smiled more, but in silence now.
Under the proud forehead of my ancestors
Concern had come to define me.
Like a sleepwalker, I began to walk.
Insidiously, anxiety had numbed my mind.
Your Name was leaving me at the same pace as my own
Until the day that I realized that I could not even see my hands.
I did not want to die;
I regretted being.
The bitterness of my people
Was the colour of the days and I did not notice it anymore.
I had lost my language
Without having realised it.
But then yours came back:
''Father, why hast thou forsaken me?''
With this gesture of distress openly stated
A new smile was born on my face
A sad and trembling smile, but sincere.
For days and days, I repeated your words.
From the bottom of my retreat
Where I had taken refuge
Since the time
Where I had found myself in pieces, disjointed.
A sad smile of complicity,
But a sadness with a human face,
Who was comforting me.
When I saw that I was in the desert, I began to scream.
''Lord, push aside this chalice from me!''
''Lord, push aside this chalice from me!''
From the depth of my sadness, a small incomprehensible joy
Was inhabiting me gently; because I had cried out to God.
I never thought that a simple person like me
Could cry out to God
In an outburst of no return.
May I never forget this day!
Aloud, I repeated constantly and every day your words.
The image came back, I saw colours.
An extraordinary purple and an old olive tree.
''God, push aside this chalice from me''... and gradually it was smiling from the inside ... If you want ...
But your will would be better
Because mine does not look like anything anymore.
After remaining in your womb
With these only words
For a while ... that I was not anxious to interrupt
I understood what the desert was and I loved it.
When I came into the world
It was you who healed my brushes,
Our symbolic had become my language
And I saw more devastation outside that in the desert.
There is much to paint
For whom that speaks his own image
And does not let himself be deconstructed
By camouflaging in them.
Without any merit
I am limpid in my joy and my weaknesses
Because I live of your heart
That beats instead of mine.
December 20, 1988 Monique Jarry)
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