Denise Boineau's Gallery

There is little that I can say about my painting life.  But a quick tour may allow you to read between the lines.  My father was an artist: he began with medical illustrations, graduated to making illustrations of illustrations by Jean-Jacques Audubon, but spent the bulk of his life drawing a map, never finished, of the inner vertices of the human heart.   Most of his work therefore ended up in cardiology journals.   Truly.   My mother is a psychologist.   So if you put 1 + 1 + 1 together, I had two "real" choices available to me.   I took the third one, instead.  First, textile design. A good major. Then into the world of fashion, that part of it in which the real art gets done: the shop floor, department store displays strategically placed. Stocked with colors soothing to the optic nerve, silhouettes meant to hit the retina where images take hold, textures to flirt and tease and build desire, of the right sort: to try it on, to open up your wallet, to make it yours. Simulation and Simulacra. When did the seduction begin and what will replace it, when it comes to an end? I digressed. From 34th Street to the movie set. Moving ever closer to (or farther away from) a stable narrative. Costume design is, at its core, no different than customer design. Only an "r" stands between them. Light and shadows, in a dark room, with a projector telling it as it could be. Two hours later--in my case, two years later--I was back on the shop floor. My own shop, my own floor. All along the way, the gloss to the text was a brush and canvas, charcoal and paper.