FRANCOIS FIEDLER
FOUNDATION
Pierre Descargues:* The Instinct and the Intelligence, 1967
“Is Fiedler an inexplicable artist? Definitely. And, one might say, someone who could not be given a name. It is a fact that he
has worked in something which cannot be designated, which cannot be calibrated or contrasted. He has ventured into the
unformulatable, armed with one strength, with the assurance of one sole law; his love for painting, the only means by which
this agitated, restless being expresses himself, the only route on which he advances.”
“It would be tempting to consider Fiedler as an artist guided by pure instinct. And, he himself, likes to disprove the expectations
which others place on such speculations. If instinct is at work, it seem to bear a curious resemblance, in his structures, to the
makings of intelligence. His forays, his immeasurable progresses in virgin territories, once again, start in the unknown that is
created in the known. There, were nothing grows, like there, where everything appears confused, Fiedler introduces the
mystery of art.”
* Pierre Descargues is a French art historian and critic. He wrote artbooks about Alechinsky, Braque, Hartung, Léger, Picasso,
Vincent van Gogh and Jackson Pollock.
has worked in something which cannot be designated, which cannot be calibrated or contrasted. He has ventured into the
unformulatable, armed with one strength, with the assurance of one sole law; his love for painting, the only means by which
this agitated, restless being expresses himself, the only route on which he advances.”
“It would be tempting to consider Fiedler as an artist guided by pure instinct. And, he himself, likes to disprove the expectations
which others place on such speculations. If instinct is at work, it seem to bear a curious resemblance, in his structures, to the
makings of intelligence. His forays, his immeasurable progresses in virgin territories, once again, start in the unknown that is
created in the known. There, were nothing grows, like there, where everything appears confused, Fiedler introduces the
mystery of art.”
* Pierre Descargues is a French art historian and critic. He wrote artbooks about Alechinsky, Braque, Hartung, Léger, Picasso,
Vincent van Gogh and Jackson Pollock.
Untitled, 1960, 78 x 45.5 in
“On the scales of modern art, Fiedler is the undertow. And, among painters, one who cannot be captured by ordinary methods
of measurement. And also, one of the most isolated, on the fringe of the group, no friend of exhibitions, of the salons that
abound in his field, no part of the movement of others, but in his lonely torment following a rhythm which is his very own. We
might speak of a microclimate in the heart of a continent, a place apart, in the middle of the ocean. Fiedler has the vocation of
a desert island. His friends has the vocation of the desert island. His friends have dissuaded him from going off and settling at
the end of the world, or in Yonne.”
“He has built himself a fortress of flowers, a hundred kilometers from Paris, where he rarely receives visitors. He has protected
himself from all entreaties in order to live in his own way. From contemporary art, as well as from primitive art, from music and
from poetry, selecting only a chosen few. Nothing interests him which does not serve his purpose and which is like himself. He
has built himself, thus a world is his own image. Not from a liking for comfort, nor for peace in itself, but because he has
chosen that instability, that uncertainty as his ambience, and these world are not to be explored with the instruments of
everyone else, the tools of trade. Scales that far surpass our common weights and measures. And here we have it, projected
in our lovely and well-organized parade of trends with its new positions, at the end of lengthy researches which have not been
shown to any one and which do not figure in the dialogues which artist engage in, from exhibition to exhibition. Quite definitely,
not in the line-up. One thinks of Gauguin who returned to the islands. Behind the times of some, ahead to others.”
of measurement. And also, one of the most isolated, on the fringe of the group, no friend of exhibitions, of the salons that
abound in his field, no part of the movement of others, but in his lonely torment following a rhythm which is his very own. We
might speak of a microclimate in the heart of a continent, a place apart, in the middle of the ocean. Fiedler has the vocation of
a desert island. His friends has the vocation of the desert island. His friends have dissuaded him from going off and settling at
the end of the world, or in Yonne.”
“He has built himself a fortress of flowers, a hundred kilometers from Paris, where he rarely receives visitors. He has protected
himself from all entreaties in order to live in his own way. From contemporary art, as well as from primitive art, from music and
from poetry, selecting only a chosen few. Nothing interests him which does not serve his purpose and which is like himself. He
has built himself, thus a world is his own image. Not from a liking for comfort, nor for peace in itself, but because he has
chosen that instability, that uncertainty as his ambience, and these world are not to be explored with the instruments of
everyone else, the tools of trade. Scales that far surpass our common weights and measures. And here we have it, projected
in our lovely and well-organized parade of trends with its new positions, at the end of lengthy researches which have not been
shown to any one and which do not figure in the dialogues which artist engage in, from exhibition to exhibition. Quite definitely,
not in the line-up. One thinks of Gauguin who returned to the islands. Behind the times of some, ahead to others.”
Fragments from St. Jean of the Cross, 1963, 22.4x16.4 in
Fragments from St. Jean of the Cross, 1963, 22.4x16.4 in
“Everything must be named. Everything must be counted. Without doubt. But Fiedler does not baptizes with words, nor count
with numbers. He acts with colors and lines, variable elements. Talking means little to him. Hasn’t he lived in France for ten
years without knowing a single word of French? Nor does Fiedler need a vocabulary in painting. He is a man of renovated
syntax. And how can a name be given to something so beyond words?”
“Normal methods of study do not serve for much in our case. Along the white walls of the studio, we do not find paintings,
sketches, compositions or projects. We are unable to follow the progressive construction of an idea, to learn the steps and
detours made to achieve its aim. There is no way of taking it by surprise in such a state; even if the theme is, now, discovered,
we still do not know if it will fill a mammoth canvas or a small one, if it will be embellished with one color or another, if it will
end as a painting of a ceramic piece. Fiedler works in the antipodes of the classical concept of a collective, open studio. No
one could assist him, no one could finish one of his works nor direct him towards any other end.”
“Today, he is alone, incarcerated in his house between Montereau and Provins, as, not long ago, in the countryside of Saint-
Nom-La Bretéche, alone facing the mirrors of his self, which are his paintings in which he is projecting himself without respite,
following it by the rending of innumerable images, the saving of some, proffering, thus, the act of painting as a justification for
being, the only one he know and, perhaps, he only one which he accepts. He works with the best colors on the best canvases.
This is the luxury, together with music, of a life whose only momentum arises from the sudden births of a burning need to
paint.”
with numbers. He acts with colors and lines, variable elements. Talking means little to him. Hasn’t he lived in France for ten
years without knowing a single word of French? Nor does Fiedler need a vocabulary in painting. He is a man of renovated
syntax. And how can a name be given to something so beyond words?”
“Normal methods of study do not serve for much in our case. Along the white walls of the studio, we do not find paintings,
sketches, compositions or projects. We are unable to follow the progressive construction of an idea, to learn the steps and
detours made to achieve its aim. There is no way of taking it by surprise in such a state; even if the theme is, now, discovered,
we still do not know if it will fill a mammoth canvas or a small one, if it will be embellished with one color or another, if it will
end as a painting of a ceramic piece. Fiedler works in the antipodes of the classical concept of a collective, open studio. No
one could assist him, no one could finish one of his works nor direct him towards any other end.”
“Today, he is alone, incarcerated in his house between Montereau and Provins, as, not long ago, in the countryside of Saint-
Nom-La Bretéche, alone facing the mirrors of his self, which are his paintings in which he is projecting himself without respite,
following it by the rending of innumerable images, the saving of some, proffering, thus, the act of painting as a justification for
being, the only one he know and, perhaps, he only one which he accepts. He works with the best colors on the best canvases.
This is the luxury, together with music, of a life whose only momentum arises from the sudden births of a burning need to
paint.”
Fragments from St. Jean of the Cross, 1963, 22.4x16.4 in
Fragments from St. Jean of the Cross, 1963, 22.4x16.4 in
“In 1961 Jean Grenier pointed out how in Fiedler art was sublimated, passing from the concept of form to that of matter.
He defined him as a prolific painter and emphasized his search for unity. Fiedler is an excitable being, exclusive in his tastes,
totally dedicated to his work, a painter in thrall to painting, who has subjected everything to his experiences. He is possessed
by his colors, by his brushstrokes. He is a man of a single painting. Now, Fiedler’s exhibition of 1967 is evidence of a renewal.
I am convinced that it would have been possible to organize another, three years ago, or even last year which we would also
have witnessed a metamorphosis.”
“Fiedler frequently destroys the work he does, hurling into oblivion whole days of exploratory action. Suddenly, the moment
comes for taking a glance at the man himself. He does not really know why he opens the door today, perhaps to briefly break
his solitude, but we wager that he will be happy to return to it.”
He defined him as a prolific painter and emphasized his search for unity. Fiedler is an excitable being, exclusive in his tastes,
totally dedicated to his work, a painter in thrall to painting, who has subjected everything to his experiences. He is possessed
by his colors, by his brushstrokes. He is a man of a single painting. Now, Fiedler’s exhibition of 1967 is evidence of a renewal.
I am convinced that it would have been possible to organize another, three years ago, or even last year which we would also
have witnessed a metamorphosis.”
“Fiedler frequently destroys the work he does, hurling into oblivion whole days of exploratory action. Suddenly, the moment
comes for taking a glance at the man himself. He does not really know why he opens the door today, perhaps to briefly break
his solitude, but we wager that he will be happy to return to it.”
“It could be said that his last works were carried out in a totally
new spirit and, without any doubt, Fiedler had not yet created
anything which even remotely resembles his present work. But
those who remember his earlier exhibitions know with certainty
that this new study was not entirely unpredictable. Fiedler is
certainly, and frequently, a prolific painter. He constructs infinite
weavings, close to the “sameness” of those specific musicians
where attention is separated from the habitual attraction of the
difference between continuous and discontinuous; he has only to
explore the continuous to discover that it is based on other
ruptures.
new spirit and, without any doubt, Fiedler had not yet created
anything which even remotely resembles his present work. But
those who remember his earlier exhibitions know with certainty
that this new study was not entirely unpredictable. Fiedler is
certainly, and frequently, a prolific painter. He constructs infinite
weavings, close to the “sameness” of those specific musicians
where attention is separated from the habitual attraction of the
difference between continuous and discontinuous; he has only to
explore the continuous to discover that it is based on other
ruptures.
Hommage to Connoisseur, 1965, 46x35.5 in
On other occasions, before, Fiedler has left his world where filters, selective screening bring forth certain substances of being
and has brought into relief less complex elements. From the abundant, Fiedler has, now, gone on to the meagre, even to the
very meagre.”
“At times, on a friable rock, on the trunk of a tree, on the dirty plaster of an old wall, the passer-by discovers a brushstroke
which is definitely not a natural rupture. Immediately, he searches in his surroundings for the complement which converts it
into the one letter from among many others and a word, or the other brushstroke which completes the forms of the ideograph.
If there is nothing which goes with the line in question, he will abandon his endeavour. It is nothing he will say. Fiedler
undertakes the rehabilitation of this nothing.”
and has brought into relief less complex elements. From the abundant, Fiedler has, now, gone on to the meagre, even to the
very meagre.”
“At times, on a friable rock, on the trunk of a tree, on the dirty plaster of an old wall, the passer-by discovers a brushstroke
which is definitely not a natural rupture. Immediately, he searches in his surroundings for the complement which converts it
into the one letter from among many others and a word, or the other brushstroke which completes the forms of the ideograph.
If there is nothing which goes with the line in question, he will abandon his endeavour. It is nothing he will say. Fiedler
undertakes the rehabilitation of this nothing.”
“This time he puts forward a group of work dealing with
fundamentals. After search after search, he has arrived at a minimal
pictorial image. Perhaps we fear that it will not remain extenuated,
that the rarification of the elements used will result in an
impoverishment. But this is not certain. Fiedler, in this experience is
not being impoverished and will return to the abundant. But what
matters today, in this exploration of the very meagre is that is has
provided such riches.”
fundamentals. After search after search, he has arrived at a minimal
pictorial image. Perhaps we fear that it will not remain extenuated,
that the rarification of the elements used will result in an
impoverishment. But this is not certain. Fiedler, in this experience is
not being impoverished and will return to the abundant. But what
matters today, in this exploration of the very meagre is that is has
provided such riches.”
Untitled, 1965, 46 x 32 in
“I am sure it will be read in his paintings, because comparison in another means of bestowing a name on the source of a
current of waters on a map, on a section of the trail, the passage of a shooting star, the path of a satellite. Fiedler has
searched for the tensions, wanting the line to flow form an angle and not reach an opposing angle, that on there being two
circles in the painting, one of them, the larger one, would suggest a virtual curve, beyond format. Are we in the field of
geometry here? Not at all. Fiedler, who has no palette, who paints directly on the canvas so that nothing delays his contact
with the painting was not going to be hampered by compasses or rulers. He can be compared to the anonymous scratcher of
lines on walls or notches on the bark of trees: it is not so much a curve, a straight line, a circle which he makes, but rather the
proof of his presence. I exist, he exults with his brush, as others have done with a sharpened stone, or a knife.”
“Is art possible within these limits of expression, there where does not appear anything sufficiently complex to be
communicable? In Fiedler, there are brushstrokes which lacerate, which split, which shriek. Here the brushstroke becomes a
scar, there, it is full of gentleness. We will all follow his development; we will launch ourselves with his impulse; we will brake
on reaching his end; something of the poignancy, the irresolution, the slow movement, the fast reaches us, Fiedler, in his
chosen desert, give voice to fundamental speech.”
current of waters on a map, on a section of the trail, the passage of a shooting star, the path of a satellite. Fiedler has
searched for the tensions, wanting the line to flow form an angle and not reach an opposing angle, that on there being two
circles in the painting, one of them, the larger one, would suggest a virtual curve, beyond format. Are we in the field of
geometry here? Not at all. Fiedler, who has no palette, who paints directly on the canvas so that nothing delays his contact
with the painting was not going to be hampered by compasses or rulers. He can be compared to the anonymous scratcher of
lines on walls or notches on the bark of trees: it is not so much a curve, a straight line, a circle which he makes, but rather the
proof of his presence. I exist, he exults with his brush, as others have done with a sharpened stone, or a knife.”
“Is art possible within these limits of expression, there where does not appear anything sufficiently complex to be
communicable? In Fiedler, there are brushstrokes which lacerate, which split, which shriek. Here the brushstroke becomes a
scar, there, it is full of gentleness. We will all follow his development; we will launch ourselves with his impulse; we will brake
on reaching his end; something of the poignancy, the irresolution, the slow movement, the fast reaches us, Fiedler, in his
chosen desert, give voice to fundamental speech.”
“Fiedler guides us to a narrow path, in a way which sheds a little light on the whole of his work. The meagre explains the
abundant. Certainly we notice that Fiedler has never embraced stability. Symmetry does not exist in him, but rather the
uncertainty of the detail. There are no equal weights on his scales. It always remains on the fringe of the classic axes. He is
always working beyond the law of gravity. Being in suspense is his ambit. There, without following the customary rules, he
weaves his web. Perhaps we fear that all will be overwhelmed. That in the too much or in the much too little, in the
macroscopic or in the microscopic, in the impenetrable wood or on the infinite sands where one loses oneself, wanting to
escape from the laws, one will feel oneself constrained to resist them.”
abundant. Certainly we notice that Fiedler has never embraced stability. Symmetry does not exist in him, but rather the
uncertainty of the detail. There are no equal weights on his scales. It always remains on the fringe of the classic axes. He is
always working beyond the law of gravity. Being in suspense is his ambit. There, without following the customary rules, he
weaves his web. Perhaps we fear that all will be overwhelmed. That in the too much or in the much too little, in the
macroscopic or in the microscopic, in the impenetrable wood or on the infinite sands where one loses oneself, wanting to
escape from the laws, one will feel oneself constrained to resist them.”
“However, an exceptional strictness guides him in his exploration of
something which cannot be formulated. He appears sparing in the
enthusiasm which causes him to rise from his chair to roam the
exhibition halls. Sparing because he never lets go the line, we won’t
call it the conduit. The hazardous line, which he projects before
himself. You have to hear him talk of painting. That is the only rule
which he accepts. From experience he knows that there is an
interchange between the color, the canvas and himself, that
something always happens when he stands before the painting,
that this is a fragile act, it is threatened.”
something which cannot be formulated. He appears sparing in the
enthusiasm which causes him to rise from his chair to roam the
exhibition halls. Sparing because he never lets go the line, we won’t
call it the conduit. The hazardous line, which he projects before
himself. You have to hear him talk of painting. That is the only rule
which he accepts. From experience he knows that there is an
interchange between the color, the canvas and himself, that
something always happens when he stands before the painting,
that this is a fragile act, it is threatened.”
Untitled, 1965, 52 x 39 in
“Fiedler violently oppose anything, which dares to invade this mysterious osmosis between a white screen, colors and Man. If
anyone were to suggest to him a new technique, to try another color, a reduction, an enlargement, a copy he would feel that
something was being amputated from him. The smallest concession, he says, and it is all over. He is not only fabricating a
protection for his works but rather a moral of the art which he defends. In this manner, this fragile line may take him far.”
anyone were to suggest to him a new technique, to try another color, a reduction, an enlargement, a copy he would feel that
something was being amputated from him. The smallest concession, he says, and it is all over. He is not only fabricating a
protection for his works but rather a moral of the art which he defends. In this manner, this fragile line may take him far.”
