My paintings are reminders of the bitter cold in Paris in 1956, when I watched in awe as children on ice skates traced smooth, rhythmic curves on the Canal Saint Martin.
We had just arrived from Vietnam. My family was desperately trying to find out how to dress properly to keep warm. We children walked through the snow wearing Charentaise slippers with felt soles. The cold was a shock and still remains a source of apprehension.
In the illusion of overcoming this physiological trauma, I tried to paint warm blankets. Using small brushes that were soft at the tip and stiff at the base allowed me to handle watercolors as if carding yarn. I tirelessly brushed the watercolor onto the paper in ultra-thin layers until I achieved the density of skin, enveloping the body and providing a feeling of solace.
