The work of Francis Limérat resembles no other. It is unique—both original and characteristic of the spirit of an era when, in the 1970s, a diverse group of artists contributed to a renewal of forms and practices in painting. Francis’ work is neither pictorial nor sculptural in the traditional sense. It is a contribution to the redefined territory of contemporary drawing, where the intent—or rather, the project—has broken free from traces on the page, finding new expression elsewhere. Against the wall, yet standing a few centimeters away from the surface, his works allow light to amplify their lines through cast shadows. These shadows dematerialize the artwork, revealing its double presence—not as an object but as an obstruction to light. The shadow becomes a tool for contemplating the deeply melancholic dimension of his work, a reflection of a historical moment that followed the disillusionment of revolutionary hope: the modernist ideals carried by artistic avant-gardes for over a century.
Francis preferred to pursue the experimental dimensions embodied by the Constructivist artists he greatly admired: Tatlin, Malevich, and Rodchenko. A phrase by sculptor and dancer Oskar Schlemmer could alone encapsulate Limérat's vision: “I would like to create a monumental work as thin as a hair.” The impossibility expressed in this idea contains the poetic seed of a work yet to be realized—one that Francis, perhaps unknowingly, sought to materialize through his subtle constructions.
Joseph Beuys defined drawing as “sculpture without shadow,” but Leonardo da Vinci said that shadow is a substance of the distant. This notion of distance is one of the hidden sources of Francis' work. Reflecting on this “substance of the distant,” I think of the so-called “first arts” cultures described by Bruce Chatwin in The Songlines, a book Francis loved deeply. In it, Chatwin evokes the wanderings of the Australian Aboriginals—songlines—as an art of contemplating the earth’s landscapes. For Francis, his studio became the land and landscape of his life, a place he traversed in imagination, in an enclosed space—or, as I prefer to say, in a vast enclosed space. To this end, he invented constructions akin to wandering lines drawn in space, inviting us to follow them with our gaze. These supports for contemplation lead us through imaginary cadastres, a cartography of fine twigs tied together—reminiscent of navigators who do not rely on star charts but find their way by observing the flux of invisible ocean currents.
The open and immense space glimpsed in his constructions mirrors the patience of nature, which each spring unfolds the interwoven growths at the tips of tree branches.
Francis drew with sticks. He wove lines and curves from twisted wood, crafting the marvelous supports of a dormant vegetal universe, whose growth he carefully observed. He explained to me that his process always began with a draft—a handful of wooden rods dropped randomly. From this mikado of endless possibilities, he would reconstruct, removing or cutting parts with pruning shears, until only certain angles and salient bifurcations remained. His works are abstract, but the suspended lines, without terminations, evoke bridges, scaffolding, unfinished structures, and pathways stretching into emptiness.
Our friendship began in 1972 through exhibition projects. At times, Francis was so whimsical and playful that, whether alone with him or with friends, everything became a pretext for a return to childhood. Conversations would end in jokes, bursts of laughter, pranks, role-playing, or dressing up.
Chantal and Francis created a life in Paris and their beautiful home in Landerouet wholly devoted to creativity, the defense of Art, and the promotion of living literature. Chantal ran the bookstore La Folie en tête, where, in 2017, she organized a unique event in France: a celebration of the centenary of the 1917 revolution with a tribute to Ukrainian and Russian artists Tatlin, Malevich, and Lissitzky. Francis, Jean-François Dubreuil, and I were invited by Chantal to recreate a painting by these three historic artists for the occasion.
Francis was also an exceptional teacher. During his teaching career at the Beaux-Arts in Amiens and Angers, I appreciated his light, subtle intelligence throughout our seven years of collaboration at the École des Beaux-Arts in Angers. His artistic and literary sensibility was profound. Without dogmatism, he used his talent to encourage approaches that diverged from his personal tastes. He was a man of rare elegance, with a natural generosity and a refined sense of humor. Even today, as he has left us only a few days ago, he would have known how to touch us. In a thoughtful gesture, in silent words, or with a smile, he would have told us:
“I know what this world is made of, where so many people suffer. But never forget that lucidity, like Art, can illuminate the shadows of our lives. And remember: The sun never sees the shadow…”
Bernard Moninot, November 22, 2023
