On the way to the Fort du Mont where I suffered part of my adolescence, we stop in Grenoble, which is interesting for me only its museum of contemporary art. Dora doesn’t know him yet, I want to show him. Until September 28, the exhibition of “works on paper” by Cy Twombly is held there.
It’s noon, it’s hot, the huge building overlooking the Isère no longer has the modern splendor it had when I discovered it in the 1990s. of Soulage. The concrete has suffered, the graffiti on the monumental sculptures installed on the square are neither joyful nor relevant, to believe that this art has been lost. The herbs have grown between the slabs of the grand staircase, if there is an old-fashioned side to this monumental architecture, it is because of the maintenance, the gardeners are on vacation, but this freedom left to plants is charming, encouraging , she says the majesty of time, so we climb the steps of the staircase with a martial step. Especially since there is no one, it’s Sunday, absolutely no visitors.
We are greeted with eagerness by the person in charge of checking the bags. The lobby, with its Frank Lloyd Wright staircase, gives you an almost ironic Guggenheim feel. Behind the cash desks, three young people quickly part with their non-professional chatter to sell us tickets. Visiting an empty museum is an opportunity which, in addition, delights the staff: ah, we have visitors!
The avenue, what am I saying, the Champs-Elysées which lead to the permanent exhibition halls, I admire them as before, and more. Not outdated, the energy expenditure they impose should never become a problem. No false ceiling, it’s a masterpiece, don’t touch it!
Cy Twombly is more beautiful than anything
The temporary exhibitions are on the right. Our solitudes separate as soon as they cross the threshold of the vestibule of biographical decompression. A large photo of Annabelle d’Huart taken in 1977, in Rome: Cy Twombly, in his studio, aristocratically sprawled in an armchair, turns his head to observe one of his works. He is not 50 years old, he has been married for twenty years to Baroness Tatiana Franchetti. I know enough. I enter.
The first room is a moment of recognition, of updating. Everything is fine. I still love him. To be alone in the middle of the Cy Twombly Romans is no longer a chance, it is a privilege that does not deprive anyone.
Second room, third room, well-being takes hold of me, I don’t know in which room the tears come to me. It’s almost more beautiful than…than anything. I almost said more beautiful than his paintings. The cliches present themselves at the threshold of your conscience with their good looks of celebrities who allow themselves everything. Well no, you have to stop them before they come in and pervert your mind. Cy Twombly is more beautiful than anything, and I don’t know why. Not yet.
I continue, from an enchantment to the other room, and I come back and pass through there again… I come across Dora’s solitude in this labyrinth of papers. We’re still the only ones, happy to be there, it’s no longer a privilege, it’s a hold-up.
Collages, graffiti, scrambling, white below, white above, names and words in glaring handwriting, sketches of the essential drawn by a mad musician. The bits of tape in the four corners of a Canson sheet indicate the era, 1973-1977, their economy, their context, they raise the confusion, the shivers, without anyone knowing why. Not yet.
The words, the names, the emotions of his readings, Virgil, Pliny the Elder: “The fate of many men is without flowers.” Cy Twombly would have had the genius to achieve the symbiosis between saying and doing, thought and gesture, beautiful letters and the image of the emotions they arouse. He is alone against all, and the why of tears.
* Christophe Donner is a writer