Look, observe, feel and imagine as if to always better perceive things in life and everyday life. The artist from an architectural universe never stops understanding and allowing himself to be seduced by the human journey in given spaces with this alternation of place and posture.

The simplicity of a pose that becomes complicit in a space or a space that sublimates the presence of a passage. Like a love story, a particular attitude or a body whose meanings are sometimes unknown.

Interpret, script, as if to better define fields of the possible between interior and exterior. This dimension which appeals to the inside and the outside, the self and the others, order and disorder, fullness and emptiness or even image and history. These opposites that leave marks and determine how we perceive them. the artist plays with the scenery, blurring it as well as sublimating it.

Presence or absence as if to give free rein to the imagination of a short one-act story or a three-part triptych. This figurative waltz is enriched by the sketch of a stolen moment, sometimes supported by symbolic graphics that redefine the limits of these opposites to reveal a distinctive evidence.

Like an exacerbated passion, the composition is an integral part of his work and complicit in making the subject live in its medium by involving it in its format. Like unfinished lace, between classicism and timelessness, we are invited to appropriate living spaces linked to our walks.

Alain Rouschmeyer is best known for his acrylic paintings on medium-format canvas and his contemporary ink drawings. Observer of everyday life, he analyzes the human journey through the postures and spaces crossed, as if to probe the banal and capture its scent.

His artistic itinerary invites him to work on architecture in which he likes to reflect on living spaces and the cross-functionalities that define their uses. Like a poet analyst, Alain Rouschmeyer's work navigates between reality and intimacy, revealing attachment and detachment at the whim of a conscious will.

He explores the hidden dimension of a daily life that never ceases to challenge us like warm jazz or blues music. The romanticism of which he fully assumes the contemporary and timeless translation inhabits the medium like an involved space.

My father worked at home, installed in part of the living room to better be able to receive his clients. He had a workspace consisting of a fairly ordinary, almost medical-looking desk with two visitor chairs and a corner unit that created the necessary distance from the drawing board facing the wall. Between the articulated lamps, the screw-in stool, the monstrous armchair on wheels, everything was positioned very close to the door with the appearance of an infernal machine. Depending on my intrusive moments I would find either my father in a position applied to his desk or perched on his stool with his elbows on this vast tilted drawing board.

The desk, like the drawing board, allowed me an observer position with a very singular angle of view, since my chin was always at the height of the tabletop. I could thus see come and go the ample, precise and very elegant gestures of my father, who was holding a mechanical pencil or even a grapho that looked so mechanical. If I stood on tiptoe, and thus gain a few inches, I could discover a global and grazing perspective of his work. I then alternated between seeing the tip of a tool caressing its support and the distorted result of the whole. I was fascinated by the spectacle that presented itself to me and which varied according to my postures and the darkening leaves. The alternation of his gestures was almost punctuated by his breathing and I never tired of observing his hands, his work and his face which remained tirelessly fixed on his work.

On a regular basis, I harassed my father to try one of his tools, I felt an indefinable urge to be able to put my cheek on a table and reproduce what I had seen moments before. His negative and authoritarian responses replaced his delicacy which allowed me to observe regularly and with monastic silence the waltz of his wrist. Saddened by my rejected requests… read more
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