"No Comments!" 

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We too would be tempted to use this title given by Eva David to a lot of her paintings, her pastels or her charcoals; a title that would exempt us, a little loosely, from making any judgment on the unusual, puzzling, unclassifiable work of this artist who, as a child, was recognizing color "even before she knew how to speak"... 

 

An artist who came early to Paris from her native Bulgaria, and brought with her not just her fiery gaze, but also the jet black of her heavy hair and her surprising smile, deep, enigmatic and seductive, playful. The taste as superb as morbid of Eros and Tanatos, of the loving life. 

 

A buffoonish and tragic expressionism at the same time, sensational, terrifying, burst, belched, spat out, vomited from the depths of his heart and guts, nourished by our Middle Ages and taken from the side of Dürer and Hans Baldung Grien, as well as from El Greco and Goya, in whom fear to frighten did not exist, where death, natural and familiar companion of existence, was there, everywhere present, horrifying mask, sneering and grotesque, manioc, bewitching, adorned with its most beautiful finery or such as its two charcoals Eve and Eve of January 89, callipygous Venus, lascivious and thieving, whose invisible Camarde starts to drown. 

 

Because here, in this painting of Eva David based on flaming reds, color of fire, color of blood, ochre of sulphurous yellows, crossed, scarred of blues spouted out of the depths and of putrefied, deleterious greens, everything is game, masquerade and phantasmagoria. 

 

All is macabre carnival where in the biggest violence of the line, in its strongest authenticity, in its haste to tear off the derisory mask of this omnipresent death which taunts, which provokes and corrupts, the artist become other, in a second state close to the self-destruction, frees itself without shame nor modesty with a surprising speed of its anguishes and its phantasms... 

 

Then, once she has thrown her cry into her canvases of all sizes as well as into her immense frescoes in oil on paper where she has just brushed in the same impetus, the same jet, her sublime graffiti of staggering skulls, Eva, the beautiful Eva, emptied, exhausted, collapsed, abandons her brushes that she will only pick up again days, weeks, or even months later, after having traveled a lot.

 

And lived her life quite simply, without thinking any more about Tanatos rejected to its darkness.

Eva David, a tornado, a hurricane, whose work, seen once, only once, can no longer be confused with any other.

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One cannot love, but one must admire. Eva David is a painter.

 

Here is a painter!

 

Pierre BRISSET (with the kind permission of the magazine "l'Oeil".)