Tangui Bidou

All I need is a kitchen.
A sink for running water and washing dishes, an electric mixer, and some pots and pans. Mix the ingredients, work the dough, spread it into the mold, and let it rest.
The straight line softens into a gentle slope, architecture becomes organism. In the kitchen, the dough spills over, sags, and curves. The shapes resist the right angles through their curves and roughness. The plaster hesitates between plant, body and machine.
Childhood surfaces – not as a memory, but as a way of looking. Out-of-scale forms that float, slide and slip away. Objects that pretend: to be a cave, a machine, a bird, a body.
The colors are bold: lemon yellow, bubblegum pink, mint green. Next to the sculptures, gouache drawings either anticipate or extend the gesture. They trace the contours of an unstable world, where forms repeat – like a collection of possible figures. 
Five sculptures are transformed into instruments. The five of us play for a few minutes, improvising, supporting one another. The sounds – of brass, horn, conch – emerge like animal or guttural voices. The object becomes an extension of our breath and a trace of our presence.
Everything evokes a makeshift world, made of simple gestures, persistent images and the desire to believe that everything could, suddenly, start to dance.