Claude Verlinde and Jacques Poirier, mirage makers.

Claude Verlinde and Jacques Poirier are two underrepresented French painters. They are both master illusionists/image makers/mirage makers.

invitation aux jeux du theatre verlinde micheleroohani

I fell in love with the above painting when I first got introduced to Verlinde’s work in Paris. We all know hollow people, lacking in real value, sincerity, or substance – we have all met shallow people lacking in depth of thought, or feeling. In Persian we call them “hollow drums”: noisy but empty.

the witness jacques poirier micheleroohani

Thanks to the internet we can know of something without really knowing about it. We used to have to read, to see, to hear something in order to be able to talk about it but not anymore folks! everybody’s an expert.

I’ve been wanting to talk about V.S. Naipaul for the longest time. Every time that somebody tries to eat up my life/time, I remember the writer’s fabulous statement reported on BBC: “my life is too short, I can’t listen to banality”.

naipaul young and old micheleroohani

Staying with the trompe l’oeil of Verlinde and Poirier, take a look at this very clever ad: micheleroohani

You can see the rest of these very funny ads here.

Today is my blog’s first anniversary! If you like what you see, please subscribe.

14 thoughts on “Claude Verlinde and Jacques Poirier, mirage makers.

  1. Congratulations for the anniversaire. Sensitive and courageous notes,great itinary for an intellectual journey. In the last blog the concept of the hollow men invokes T.S. Eliot’s great poem the Hollow Men. This is how good blogs work. They jump-start our imagination and memory. Your grateful reader


  2. Bon anniversaire pour ce blog intéressant qui nous fait enrichir, surprendre et divertir pendant quelques moments.

  3. Des photos très réussies, voire superbes…Des commentaires souvent pertinents…Longue vie au blog de Michele et joyeux anniversaire.
    A propos de VS Naipaul qui dit que la vie est trop courte pour entendre des banalités…Certes, mais il me semble qu’il en va des banalités comme des imbéciles : heureusement qu’il y en a pour que les autres se reconnaissent. Au demeurant, qui n’a jamais dit de banalité? Qui n’a jamais été stupide?

  4. Bravo, Michele! Your blogs are a very welcomed instigator for thoughts and ideas I might never have considered or fully developed. Appropriately, ‘Mirage Makers’ offers an excurciating tag for the disengaged (day, week, month, year) life. Thank you for the year. Happy anniversary.


  5. Congratulations & Gratitude on your blog anniversary.

    Colors passing through us

    Purple as tulips in May, mauve
    into lush velvet, purple
    as the stain blackberries leave
    on the lips, on the hands,
    the purple of ripe grapes
    sunlit and warm as flesh.

    Every day I will give you a color,
    like a new flower in a bud vase
    on your desk. Every day
    I will paint you, as women
    color each other with henna
    on hands and on feet.

    Red as henna, as cinnamon,
    as coals after the fire is banked,
    the cardinal in the feeder,
    the roses tumbling on the arbor
    their weight bending the wood
    the red of the syrup I make from petals.

    Orange as the perfumed fruit
    hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
    orange as pumpkins in the field,
    orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
    who come to eat it, orange as my
    cat running lithe through the high grass.

    Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,
    yellow as a hill of daffodils,
    yellow as dandelions by the highway,
    yellow as butter and egg yolks,
    yellow as a school bus stopping you,
    yellow as a slicker in a downpour.

    Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
    song of all the things you make
    me think of, here is oblique
    praise for the height and depth
    of you and the width too.
    Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.

    Green as mint jelly, green
    as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
    the green of cos lettuce upright
    about to bolt into opulent towers,
    green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
    glass, green as wine bottles.

    Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
    bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
    blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
    Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
    Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
    azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.

    Cobalt as the midnight sky
    when day has gone without a trace
    and we lie in each other’s arms
    eyes shut and fingers open
    and all the colors of the world
    pass through our bodies like strings of fire.

    by Marge Piercy

  6. Longue vie à toi et à ton blog

    ‘Tavalod è-digar’ — Autre naissance

    Tout mon être est un verset de l’obscurité
    Qui en soi-même te répète
    Et te mènera à l’aube des éclosions et des croissances éternelles
    Je t’ai soupiré et soupiré
    Dans ce verset je t’ai, à l’arbre, à l’eau et au feu, greffé.
    La vie peut-être
    Est une longue rue que chaque jour traverse une femme avec un panier
    La vie peut-être
    Est une corde avec laquelle un homme d’une branche se pend
    La vie peut-être est un enfant qui revient de l’école
    La vie peut-être c’est allumer une cigarette
    dans la torpeur entre deux étreintes
    Ou le regard distrait d’un passant
    Qui soulève son chapeau
    Et à un autre passant, avec un sourire inexpressif, dit : “Bonjour.”
    La vie peut-être est cet instant sans issue
    Où mon regard dans la prunelle de tes yeux se ruine
    Et il y a là une sensation
    Qu’à ma compréhension de la lune et ma perception des ténèbres je mêlerai.
    Dans une chambre à la mesure d’une solitude
    Mon coeur
    A la mesure d’un amour
    Les prétextes de son bonheur
    Le beau déclin des fleurs dans le vase
    La pousse que dans le jardin tu as plantée
    Et le chant des canaris
    Qui chantent à la mesure d’une fenêtre.
    C’est mon lot
    C’est mon lot
    Mon lot
    C’est un ciel qu’un rideau me reprend
    Mon lot c’est de descendre un escalier abandonné
    Et de rejoindre une chose dans la pourriture et la mélancolie
    Mon lot c’est une promenade nostalgique dans le jardin des souvenirs
    Et de rendre l’âme dans la tristesse d’une voix qui me dit :
    “Tes mains
    Je les aime”.
    Mes mains je les planterai dans le jardin
    Je reverdirai, je le sais, je le sais, je le sais
    Et les hirondelles dans le creux de mes doigts couleur d’encre
    A mes oreilles en guise de boucles
    Je pendrai deux cerises pourpres et jumelles
    Et à mes ongles je collerai des pétales de dahlia.
    Il est une rue là-bas
    Où des garçons qui étaient de moi amoureux, encore
    Avec les mêmes cheveux en bataille, leurs cous graciles
    et leurs jambes grêles,
    Pensent aux sourires innocents d’une fillette qu’une nuit
    le vent a emportée avec lui.
    Il est une ruelle
    Que mon coeur a volée aux quartiers de mon enfance.
    Volume en voyage
    Sur la ligne du temps
    Volume qui engrosse la sèche ligne du temps
    Volume d’une image vigile
    Qui revient du festin d’un miroir
    Et c’est ainsi
    Que l’un meurt
    Et que l’autre reste.
    Au pauvre ruisseau qui coule dans un fossé
    Nul pêcheur ne pêchera de perles.
    Je connais une petite fée triste
    Qui demeure dans un océan
    Et joue son coeur dans un pipeau de bois
    Doucement doucement
    Une petite fée triste
    Qui la nuit venue d’un baiser meurt
    Et à l’aube d’un baiser renaît.

  7. Bon Anniversaire… and Happy 1st Anniversary!!! Love your blog and keep on sending it… It’s always interersting, exciting and take us to good old days….!!! hahaha… It is a joy to know you as a friend for so many yearsssss… Send my love to the family.

  8. “Invitation to play” has glazed my eyes
    and beyond for many years now,
    time has passed like a river
    under the bridges made
    never Pont Neuf or
    the Bridge of Sighs, yet

    between the crevices of quiet moments
    in the fog of the night
    wet to the mist of the morning glory
    and early to the blue haze

    I have found precious gems
    of knowledge
    music to my ears
    inviting me to play
    beyond the hollow curves

    This enticing sense
    reminds me of a childhood
    when the scent of lemons and oranges
    pealed in a spiral filled my room.

    ……You have released the fragrance….salute!

  9. Congratulations Michelle on your blog’s first anniversary! When we realize Naipaul’s comment about the value of time, it becomes obvious that you’ve used yours productively. You’ve added value to your surroundings, and that’s the true measure of achievement.
    Speaking of time, it is the great equalizer. Whether one’s the Sultan of Brunei or the petty thief on the streets of Rio, we all experience the same 24 hour interval each day, no less, and certainly no more. Like the perennial sky over our head, we are bound by the inevitability of time. We can’t escape it and with the fragility of the human frame, time’s claws continue to haunt and delight us. Naipaul’s statement about the value of time is significant, especially when we truly understand its fleeting abundance and eventual scarcity. We all have a finite amount of it on this earth. A less erudite, yet as profound a statement was made by Tolkien’s Gandolf the Gray, a character from the Lord of the Rings trilogy. The wise and benevolent wizard tells Frotto of the Shire: “All you need to do is to decide, what you want to do, with the time that’s been given to you!”
    This simple statement is the common denominator of all our lives. The whole spectrum of humanity works within its framework. Every morning, we wake up and make simple, ordinary choices. Every now and then the significance of our choices dramatically changes the course of our lives and those around us. We either waste this valuable entity or use it productively. The choices we make about our time changes the course of history, and consequently our destiny. And like the intricate connectedness that links us all, humanity evolves from the fallout of such choices. Our time is limited; our choices must be wise.

  10. je suis très en retard,mais le regard que vous portez sur ce qui nous entoure tendre et cruel, acéré ou feutré, avec vos colères sourdes ou la fluidité de votre vocabulaire…. tout ceci fait de moi une assidue de ce blog.
    Je ne suis as bloggeuse par nature, mais vous êtes l’exception qui confirme la règle.
    Joyeux anniversaire à ce blog, et un très grand merci à vous Michèle.

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