Gregory Forstner was born in Douala, Cameroon, to a French mother and an Austrian father. He interrupted his high school studies and decided to study at the Academy of Applied Arts in Vienna, Austria, then at the Villa Arson in Nice. He then worked in Nice for several years.
In 2008, winner of a grant from the French Ministry of Culture for a one-year residency in New York. He settled there with his family.
The Collector’s Fiancée
She was tall, she was blonde, she was the collector’s fiancée. I made her nourishing hips (in addition to the buttocks, I like women’s hips), swimmer’s shoulders (I am a swimmer), Naples yellow hair (I am blond) and a colonial helmet from the African bush (I was born in Cameroon). Might as well paint the girls we like to fuck. The stereotypes have stiff skin, their surface is gold-plated. The desirable girl is therefore blonde, pulpy, with hard pointed breasts, her lips are red and shiny. Smoke passes through my fingers. I paint with sugar.
I have a direct link with my childhood. I am there when I want. When I think of cloud, I imagine it blue. In painting mountains are always blue. The child on the beach draws the blue cloud. The sky is blue too and the sea below is blue as well but deeper. In the middle it’s “empty”, it’s the white of the paper that doesn’t ask for anything. It took me a long time to paint landscapes. I have no problem with the wind, the sea, the grass, the cows, all that. When they arrive in the painting, they are there to pose a scene. The Fall of Icarus is a good example. The subject has gone underwater, only the ridiculous feet and the burning calves are visible at the bottom right. In the meantime, every detail of the landscape allows for a dive.
Art is compensatory. The painting does not try to say something. It is about a moment. You have to pinch yourself to believe it! No kidding, painting is nothing but to pinch yourself to believe in it. There is History and the little story, but in truth, it is always a sensation that slips away to be renewed elsewhere and differently. One hides behind the images of others to appear bigger. The rest is conversation. Others have to have fun, alone, we don’t exist. Here, the sky is as blue as its clouds, and in the wind the Bride pulls The Collector. The object of the figure is its presence, its appearance is its effect. Do not look elsewhere. The child begins by drawing what seems essential to him, arms, legs, head, and he marvels. I have grown up and I paint what I like: breasts, eyes, pool cues, assholes and hips, scuba divers and then sometimes dogs – you always have to paint the things you want – or the things you hate.
I prefer to paint pretty girls. Sometimes the paint paints them ugly, but I paint them beautiful. Painting sometimes decides otherwise because around a girl there is always something going on that you don’t anticipate. In life, it is the same. It is necessary that the girl complains a little so that the painting turns, she makes the pout, a grimace, and one cracks. While looking for the air of the hostess, we perceive the air of the painting in its bottom. By forcing stereotypes, the natural explodes. By dint of making the gesture, he leaves alone.
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