Inès Longevial: Speaking In Silence

In the close-ups, the vulnerable and at the same time guarded faces seem to gaze into their own truths in an unsettling yet warm haze. Inès conveys a multitude of ambivalent emotional realms, which may seem contradictory at first glance, yet illustrate the complexity and nuances of human sentiment.

We spoke to Inès about the art of expression and discourse.

Carolin Desiree Becker: You painted your first pictures at the tender age of 8. What drove you as such a young person towards art?

Inès Longevial: I didn’t really think about what drove me towards art. It was more visceral. From the moment I started drawing and painting, I couldn’t imagine my life without it. I spoke a lot, but I wasn’t precise with my words. I still am not, actually. I’m afraid of words, but never of painting. Painting through movement, color through shadow and light, expresses things that I can’t articulate. It’s like being a ventriloquist. Saying things in silence. Painting expresses all emotions without naming them. And from childhood, I became addicted to this way of communicating.

Can you explain how this communication through art works?

It always seems a bit simplistic to explain it like this, but expression happens without words. The power of a gesture, or the delicacy of a touch, the intensity of light, the softness of a shadow, the chosen subject, as well as framing and different planes, are all pieces of information that speak in silence. When not everything is said, a dialogue is established, and that’s where emotion is born. I often take In the Mood for Love as an example; Wong Kar Wai didn’t have a script, yet the story unfolded, the unconscious mind creates coherence, and the characters’ magnetism is palpable. Without a script, magic happens. It’s the same with painting; it’s a dance of gestures and movements, desires and repulsions mixed together, all guided by an intuitive will.

In your paintings, you speak to the outside world through your use of color. Where does this come from, what do colors evoke in you?

It triggers everything. As simple as that. Color says it all: texture, taste and, therefore, naturally, life. Nothing makes me happier than the color of rain in spring or beautiful, red, fuzzy strawberries in a fresh, green field. A rosy, April sun on cold, gray metal. Painful, blue thistles. A black, stormy sky reflecting in the greenish ocean… etc.

Looking at most of your works, one finds sweet, delicately warm yet slightly melancholy self-portraits. Why does this constellation of “opposites” represent you so well?

I’m not sure if the idea is to represent myself. I depict myself out of modesty and courtesy; I don’t want to steal anything from others. Nothing is more my own than my face. And even though it involves introspection, I don’t make it the central subject of my work. My face is a pretext for painting skin and emotions. A neutral screen for contemplation. However, opposites as subjects are an obsession for me; I believe one builds oneself better when able to accept contradictions. I seek them out and cherish them. There’s a sort of freedom in opposites.

What do you want your art to convey to the world?

Let’s not forget it’s just painting! I would like to touch people, console them, take a bit of their pain to hide it in a canvas, but I think the ambition or hope one puts into a painting can make me sick. I try as much as possible to live peacefully with that. I cannot control what my painting may provoke.

At first glance, your works reflect contradictory worlds – why is it that we often find ambivalence so difficult to bear, why do we feel compelled to question and dissect it?

It’s true that we always want to cut, choose, dissect. I think we don’t easily accept simplicity or not knowing. I’m not sure if it’s fear of boredom or emptiness. Yet, I believe that life resides in simplicity. Just look at nature. We don’t have to know how to explain something to appreciate it. Often, I don’t understand things.

Another leading role is displayed by the depiction of the female body in all its complexity. We all have this body in which we live, it looks different for everyone and yet it connects us all. Why is this such a strong motif? And why do we think so much about it?

When I started painting women, including myself, I wanted to transpose poses, postures, and character traits that we adore or idolize in men onto women and see what would come of it. I don’t prioritize appearance, but expression. And it may seem simple or too subtle, yet simply representing large female faces furrowing their brows, not smiling, or just without hints, questions our expectations of the harmony and grace of the female face and body. And I think as a child of the 90s, I was conditioned to be normative, to see femininity according to certain codes. As for the body, there’s a suffered nudity and a voluntary nudity, one that regains its rights and strength by attempting to extricate itself from prefabricated sensuality. I found answers about my body, my expression, my femininity in painting these warrior bodies.

We are currently experiencing times that are, in some ways, perfectly reflected in your work. We slowed down due to the pandemic and are enjoying being “free” again, but at the same time, worries, financial fears and war are raining down on us. The last few years have carried a lot of emotional weight. On the one hand, we are all these delicate, blooming colors and the lightness that runs through your pictures, but we are also this pinch of melancholy and the essence of sadness. What part can art play in helping us through such times?

Art is proof of freedom. According to Nietzsche, it reveals the tragic dimension of life. And I believe it is a witness to peace. It demonstrates how precious freedom is and that we must use it. Personally, I do not claim to have any social utility through my work, even though it would be an honor to be able to comfort people, to offer them a refuge.

What gets you through these times?

Going to look at the new children’s books in bookstores, I discovered a very beautiful one this morning: The Boy with Flowers in His Hair by Jarvis. Watching people and forgetting myself – the theater is a very good place to do that. Admiring the light in the trees. Listening to the conversations of children coming out of school on the street. Arranging a bouquet of flowers. Enjoying the best coffee in the world made by my loved one, with a slice of Marmite toast.

Interview by Carolin Desiree Becker