De Marbre et de Plume - Preface by Manu Berk

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AVALANCHE
ON BLACK MARBLE

“Painting opened my eyes”, George W. Bush said recently.
This is how great art books begin: either with an absurd quote or with a barbaric author.
So we mix the two.
Black marble.

Crash / Crash / Silence.
The artist is there, drawing.
No deaths, but romance: graphic epic.
Absurd like the world, old like art, happy like a tree.

Here begins the light of your gas station.

Nix Nolte comes to cast shadows over his own cave and manipulates his own ghosts, not to say “illusions”.
Plato died before Nietzsche, who died before the Super Bowl.
The shadows move under the sheet of the world and are excited by the touch. Loss of balance, that's what awaits you, an avalanche of black powder.
America!
Bush had nothing to do with it. It is haunted.
Like all introductions to artists’ books.

Nix Nolte's pen dances with its own doormats, ghostly poems in a hallucinatory requiem. We move forward gradually in this black metal tracking shot and we stagger between the corpses and the clouds. No more will be needed.
Movie theater.

This is what the subject is about, a profusion of cinematographic references in a dark and poetic register.
Pen and ink dribble across the marble, a perverse, obsessed simulacrum, a blockbuster without tricks.

All that was missing was the oil princes: You need money, we’ve money...

They bought everything you thought you owned, now what? They are looking to buy what you are.
The end of the story of the soul, sold in Babylon for the price of diesel.
A tyrant called desire.

Nix Nolte staggers between selling souls to oil companies, American drawing and Bulgarian football: Pettibon and Stoichkov in an after lunch on the grass. Gin and tonic.

Nix's poetry enters through the automatic door, and exits with jokes that have neither tail nor head. That’s sometimes how you have to take things: neither head nor tail, you have the choice. We then arrive by taxi in Dada. Shouldn't we shake our own dreams to wake up?

Riposte: he who gropes rubs against it.
Miss Sauvage is preparing a shot, alone in her bra, robin on the kalash.
What can she do?
Sometimes it's hard to shoot your own desert.
All she has to do is conquer her demons.
Dracula or Duchamp?

We should say things to ourselves now:
enter this collection of black prayers, check your eyes as one checks the lights: the clarity of malice / incessant warning / clairvoyance...
The whole thing flashes, varying the shades, to warn you of demons...
Clever voodoo, the mind at play, which twists and throbs like a mad master.
Nix deceives the eye, like a feather in the light. So take advantage of this moment of calm in pleasure.

If you feel tingling behind the back of your neck it is because you have been marabouted, and there is nothing left but laughter to heal you, but I would point out in passing that Nix Nolte's art does not protect against manipulation. mental.

Maracanã.

Nix Nolte then signs his images as a raw and poetic landscape theater which borders on the Unidentifiable Object.
Extraterrestrial refuge, and sold out.
Nuances also that we will encounter at the edge of the ends of worlds. We are then taken into the shadow of a bastard who is putting on his best play.

Now I think you can jump to the first page. The cookie fell, I repeat, the cookie fell, water lily calls dove.
The way is clear !

Manu Berk,
February 2016