Déjeuner en l'air

This lunch invitation, which has suddenly fallen into my lap, is no small matter. And a lunch invitation isn't exactly a trivial one either.

But where exactly is "in the air"? How does one even get there? I've heard that originally, Aude Ambroggi, a painter from the island, decided to bring together a number of artists to exhibit their work in her vast "Big Gallery" in the Marais district of Paris. Okay, but that doesn't tell the whole story.

After that, rumor had it that the "Lunch in the Air" was chosen by lot in a studio in the 20th arrondissement. Chosen by lot? No, no, not chosen by lot, they were quick to correct: found.

I have no idea how, or where in the studio, they found this aerial lunch.

I went there, I saw the artists' works gathered together, I looked at them, admired them, and even liked them, but the mystery remains complete for me. Even though the drawings seem ethereal. The air of the studio smells of glue and ink, and a few wafts of perfume emanate from the ladies working there.

It was almost noon, and I was told we were going to lunch. But we had lunch "at Papa's," on the next street over. I didn't dare ask for anything so as not to look like a fool. We're always afraid of looking foolish. But Nicolas du Mesnil, the great engraver who works like a chef before his dominoes, assures me that, on the contrary, one mustn't forget to look foolish, especially when having lunch in the air... I looked up at the sky and saw only the flakes of murky paint on the ceiling.

What is this thing?

First of all, Pasnic, a funny name, isn't it? PASNIC. A company founded in 1978 by Pascal Gauvard and Nicolas du Mesnil du Buisson, according to the Grand Dictionnaire Éthique de l'Art Gravé (Great Ethical Dictionary of Engraved Art). And Pasnic, I'm told, is a play on words with the founders' first names. A word to the wise.

This workshop specializes in the carborundum technique and other experimental techniques. They explained everything to me; it's very interesting, really. Many artists frequent it.

It's them we'll be talking about here. They're going to have lunch in the air. For what it means...

I was asked to explain, to tell. To see and to observe.

So let's go. Here are the chosen artists—and they are certainly not the least: Sophie Sainrapt, François Jauvion, Mylène Kolé, Mark Brusse, Antonio Ségui, Monique Tello, Gildas Le Reste, Augusto Foldi, Aude Ambroggi, Michel Haas, and Jean-Paul Chambas, in the order in which I viewed their unique works.

I must begin by talking about Sophie Sainrapt. It was indeed her work on this luncheon that I saw first. It was also through her that I discovered Pasnic and the singular work done there. And that I met Monsieur Nicolas du Blanc-Mesnil du Buisson et de la Forêt Vierge Marie, to whom she is deeply devoted and affectionate. That's how women are. And she has a sweet tooth. And it is with a sweet tooth that she has etched her planned luncheon into the air. A few fruits jostled with fists and feet, and a few creatures without which one could not have a picnic. Creatures that emerge, spring from the very dishes about to be served. Sophie Sainrapt loves to paint women without clothes, plump and glistening, from behind, from behind, from the front, very front. They are irresistible. You want to have them in your home, on the walls, on the floor, in the bathroom, under the bed, in cardboard boxes, and on the table, of course. Her potted women seem to be waiting for a Rodin, or perhaps even a Manet. I, for one, am waiting to see what Sophie will do next.

François Jauvion is a good young man who colors and recolors his drawings: eaters eaten. Joy, humor, history. A little fear, too. Without fear, little art, little humor, and little joy. No story. When, like me, you love comics, you rejoice in looking at his work. His colors, far removed from the comic strips, abound like the grasses in flowering fields.

It will be a festive lunch, young and lively. I can hear her laughing.

Mylène Kolé is as blonde as summer; her smile seems to hold her pencil. She takes flight, flies like a hummingbird. I've seen, on the other side of the world, those tiny birds that plunge their beaks into the corollas, their wings fluttering to stay in place. Helicopters, next to them, look ridiculous, but as Nicolas says, it's good that way too. Her birds make her a chair; she'll be comfortably seated for the meal. She paints lightly, with graceful lightness; she paints life restored. Happiness, something so difficult to grasp.

Mark Brusse first pays homage to Pasnic, a tireless champion of freedom. He was the first to claim Manet as an influence, whose Luncheon on the Grass became a resounding success; above all, he claims Alain Jacquet as an influence. Manet, who has been interpreted, revisited, and imitated like so many others—Picasso foremost among them, and Jacquet following in his footsteps. A double entendre. Alice met Brusse in his wondrous land, with his cups in the clouds, in the air, in the air... Nothing is conventional. We are light. Light as air. Is that the key?

Monique Tello is ethereal in every way. It's her nature, her essence. Her Poitevin gaze, as old as that part of the world, covers her mysterious landscape with friezes and delicate colors. She comes from the land of fairies, witches, and wyverns.

Catholics have cloaked their rituals in their own dogmas, as they usually do, but beneath the Romanesque and Gothic styles, the elves still roam. Monique Tello is a dark-haired Saracen, as we used to say in my childhood when I went to school around there. The Arabs had been defeated at Poitiers, but they had taken the time to "love more than one." The beauties that remain are a gift. Monique Tello is a gift.

She makes furniture, friezes, paintings that fly on the wind. And the engravings you see before you…

Antonio Ségui is one of Pasnic's pillars. You see him everywhere on its walls: joyful, tender, sharp.

Latin America sings and makes people dance; it is both faithful and rebellious. Revolutions soar over the Andes and the oceans. The Americans got their comeuppance there, and it serves them right: they got what they deserved. Even if the continent knows how to breed its own predators of freedom, the artists there are the ones who will rid us of them. And the children will play with the birds. Bravo. Are Ségui's dishes flying above his eternally hatted head? It looks delicious.

Gildas Le Reste is the next-door neighbor, already a bit high up. He engraves his baskets, fills them with things; a lady watches him; he seems to be sneaking by. Black lines, clinging; a touch of blue like a wink to the sky. Are the baskets wicker? They certainly look like it.

Gildas is a delicate artist. He too enjoys the pleasure of a feast and rare grape varieties, but he claims to remain "down-to-earth"; seasickness and turbulence keep him focused on his passion for cows and especially their floorboards. He assures us that Master Manet is giving us the eye and inviting us to this luncheon by association; His own, he remembers—he was there—made the front page of the Salon des Refusés, not the Salon d'Heureuses Fusées!

Augusto—Eiffel Tower—Foldi is a dancer. A dancer who paints as she dances. It's quite lovely, and one shouldn't think of "lovely" as a diminutive of beautiful. In this case, it would be the opposite. This light-footed painter fully intends to have lunch in the clouds. But he's a planner and recommends Prosperus's Basket. Never heard of that type of utensil.

The Tower explains to me that the Phoenix appears first in it. Then spices and birds of the sky, followed by fish. You only have to look at his drawings: it seems quite clear. He insists that these dishes be accompanied by frênette wine, and pike with honey for the Bourbonnaise tart, and small chervil biscuits. Then we lie down to listen to the messenger winds.

Dancer, painter, classical artist, and poet with exquisite taste, her engravings enchant and invite pleasure.

Just a little further on, Aude Ambroggi herself, finally. Just as hungry. Just as much of a gourmand, decidedly. And very audacious, for she mixes guests and food, blacks, whites, and colors, upside down, upside down, in a profusion. We revel in it simply by watching.

And in her kitchen, there is sunshine and laughter. We want to sit and listen as much as we watch. A saucepan is on the stove: geometry in space, a small pulse of color. A child emerges from the flames, upside down; someone sticks out their tongue; music is everywhere. Like the actors. The lady doesn't hate actors and seems to love life more than anything. Life, noise, laughter. Magic. There's a crazy world, and this world is crazy too, crazy with joy. And full of pasta, roast chicken, and Cape wine; the forest is urban, with tinkling bells and races through the groves. Some of the fairies are wearing knickers, a little frightened.

But it's a celebration. Ellipsis... Thank you, signora.

Michel Haas came back from the south. He slips behind the poster papers, creating familiar shadows, a mano a mano with black on grainy white. And the animals that pass by, that graze, that run, that sleep, and the lovers. He invited someone to join us in the air, someone who rises, who rises, who will fly out of the frame if we don't stop him. A dog-cat, friendly and tender. Or wild? We can trust him: he'll be a good companion, and if he laughs like Michel Haas, the fun is far from over.

I hear Jean-Paul Chambas coming up the stairs. The door creaks a little, but he seems happy. He took his time, but time is fleeting. Chambas is Gascon, he has a very good nature, and Gascons respect the table. He takes out his papers: we discover that a crowd of friends are already seated for lunch. Down below, passersby have stopped and are looking up at those seated, glass in hand.

Chambas is a painter of revelry, again, a painter of men and women, of friends. You can feel the complicity and the essential elegance. Everything is there: the grass, the wine, the beautiful women. The beautiful women are so important. And the high heels. And the wine… And the paint being torn off.

Chambas has just discovered carborundum at Pasnic. It quickly takes over. His strokes seem to spray the paper.

Color, which usually abounds in his works, is there in complete absence. Everything is perfect. Subtle. A state of grace.

Oblique, horizontal, vertical: what an ascent! Better the boys and girls, in the cloud-like grass, than on the subway, work, McDonald's, sleep… It's good to be there, in the pure air, around noon. All these engravings shimmer together. They truly lift us up, just the way we like it. We understand Manet, the inspiration so often invoked, revisited, corrected, reinvented, and reworked in every conceivable way and in every color. Yet it was so simple: two clothed men, sitting in the grass around a picnic, in the company of a completely naked woman. All the fantasies are there. The man's clothes, the woman's naked body.

All that was missing was a little air. We have it. Here we are, ladies and gentlemen. We can stop. And look.

I must ask these guests what one shouldn't forget when invited to a Luncheon in the Air.

Pascal Aubier