The surname Fabrice Réhel hides a moving collection of modest exceptional artists, among others known for their desire to remain anonymous and their allegorical invitation to (re) stand up.
Most of them born in the seventies, came to the state of consciousness when the Beach Boys' song "Kokomo" engulfed the radio waves like a marshmallow, causing remarkable neuropsychiatric accidents in their cranial boxes.
During their youth, they always heard that it was the crisis and that it was necessary to work, work, work. A Prattian and imperious "desire to be useless" then guided them on the black paths of art.
Not having planned to enter working life, no less to make a career in whatever it was, these untroubled souls faced with the absurdity of work, religion, harmful ignorance and self-injurious beliefs, deliberately engaged their approach in a constant research about how not to stay laid down (only for good causes).
"My gosh, there are many of you!"
Anxious not to be cataloged in only one mode of expression, a label, a recognizable leg or a style, they chose on April 1, 2005 to drown in the gentle womb of a collective with the innocuous surname, Fabrice Réhel. Their magnificent audience, buzzing with as many amateurs as the collective offers modes of expression, are always looking forward to their new adventures, their multiple publications, exhibitions, meetings, sales and wanderings.
Thus was shaped from their earliest years a life imbued with the most essential activities: painting their anger, drawing their misunderstandings, writing their will to power and exposing their attempts to deride. A long-term endeavor in which they persevere flawlessly and with the happiness of being alive.
Finally, nothing very serious.
Sensitivity for artistic expression emerged for the youngest among them around the age of twelve, fascinated in class by Géricault's Raft of the Medusa presented to them by a drifting art teacher.
According to concordant sources (and far from trivial), a majority had to undergo during childhood repeated electric shocks in contact with multicolored acrylic undershirts and hoods of the Marcos sub-commander type soaked in saliva.
The eighties "It's the crisis! "
During their youth, the media turned their spears over to the excess of this litany, taken up in prime time by the actor Yves Montand reincarnated in liberal pythia, dizzy from making the weather vane. One famous french businessman Bernard Tapie bawled "Succeeding his life", the older boomers hammered that it was necessary to work, to work (implied for their (large) account). This insurmountable horizon of arid injunctions to so much abnegative work awakened in them a Prattian and imperious "desire to be useless".
Having naively not planned to enter the working life and even less to make a career anyway, these carefree souls saw no other alternative than working to live from the most essential activities: painting, drawing, writing. A long-term endeavour in which they persevere every single day.
