Rinus Van de Velde was born in 1983 and now lives&works in Belgium. More than I like his paintings (the B&W is a plus) I love the literature part – the short texts that seem to be something like David Foster Wallace’s footnotes. Things the painting can’t express. I am a big fan of combining two or more arts. The results are almost always remarcable, this case is just an example. Also take a look at Francois-Marie Banier‘s work.
‘The thing is, you can easily imagine a world without art, but not without hospitals. Art is not essential.’
‘In the end it’s all about finding a way to live in this world, to create your own structure. Everybody has to create his or her own fiction and live in it, otherwise you can’t survive.’
1000 cm x 260 cm, public work brussels
‘You can hear separate voices underneath the static, people in the streets, in a lift between the twelfth and thirteenth floor of that building over there, in dusty offices, crowded trams, in kitchens, living rooms and parking lots. They are drinking a cup of coffee on the go, leaning on a shovel, waiting by the printer, walking a dog around the block, thinking about their mother, fighting with their girlfriends, subconsciously reading the sign that says which code this particular bridge has. As you descend into this atmospheric perspective, the pixilated blur transforms into an unfolding series of details, into a specific Thursday in the city at 15 pm. A couple in a car is looking for a particular street, the person in the passenger seat turning his map upside down, overconfident of his orientation skills. A man with thick glasses and an old soul is smoking a pipe and looking out his apartment window, considering the abstract grid of the building across the street, picking out a window and a homely scene here and there: a woman playing violin, two boys jumping up and down on a couch, one dressed up as a pirate, the other as a cowboy, an elderly man apparently staring back at him. Someone’s driving way too fast, someone else is up to no good, you can tell, his eyes dark and shifty. A twenty-eight year old girl is fighting her sleep as she stares at her desktop. Someone on the train thinks he is having a heart attack while actually he is merely hyperventilating. A couple is making love in an everyday but not unpleasant way. The pleasure of sentence building, of new language spreading like fresh oxygen through an open door.’