Gaëtan Olias and his fresco "A Suspended Moment"

In the valleys of Val d'Arly, a reservoir stands, its concrete almost erased beneath a fresco. It seems to have melted into the landscape, as if it had always been waiting for Gaëtan Olias's work to come to life.

The gaze glides over the rounded forms of two seated figures, draped in loose-fitting clothing. Their posture is intriguing: their arms barely brush against each other, their feet anchored in the ground, abandoned to the moment without attempting to hold it. Their simplicity is striking—faces barely sketched, gestures reduced to the essentials—giving their presence a disturbing universality. They don't move, they wait. They inhabit the space without invading it, but their presence is unmistakable, almost magnetic. Who are they? What are they looking at?

Neither entirely realistic nor completely abstract, these figures exist on the border between the tangible and the symbolic. Here, the artist anchors one of his recurring figures: the Nazes, silhouettes he deploys from wall to wall, from one city to another. Fleeting imprints, wandering presences, they traverse spaces without becoming attached, weaving a community of familiar and benevolent beings, a common thread that characterizes his work. They are not portraits, but reflections, pieces of humanity that escape the individual to touch the collective.

The setting, however, plays its own part. Behind them, the forest rises in dark, almost graphic flat tints, cut out in a nocturnal blue that evokes the blue hour, that moment between twilight when contrasts soften. It forms a curtain that envelops and protects them. Higher up, the round moon illuminates the scene with a discreet light, like a benevolent presence. There is a silent strength in this simplicity. Gaëtan Olias doesn't seek to impress; he lets the fresco breathe, anchoring itself in the place without distorting it. He plays with the space, embraces the curvature of the support, transforming the concrete into a fragment of a story.

Everything here speaks of silence and connection: with oneself, with others, with the mountain. Gaëtan Olias opens up a space where everyone can project their own story. The cold bites their cheeks, the wind blows through the fir trees, and yet, beneath their curves, these two figures seem protected from the din of the world. They don't speak, they don't express anything specific, and yet, they tell everything. A sense of expectation, a silent complicity, perhaps simply the weight of silence when we contemplate together something greater than ourselves.

Text credits: ©Be on the Crest.

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