2022.144 Patrick Nicolas book artist manuscript photographer pop art deco Monaco
ABOUT THE WORK
Original physical prints, dated numbered signed, made from a digital file
ABOUT THE ARTIST
PATRICK NICOLAS born in 1964 in Mirecourt Vosges Lorraine France
Digital techniques: collage, drawing, writing, painting, photography
LOT1: 120 X 120 CM - MONUMENTAL
Single print. Signature date numbering on the work.
Original creation. Dimensions: 120 X 120 CM. With hanging system.
Materials: fine art print on paper, glued under acrylic glass, lamination on metal plate.
LOT2: 60 X 60 CM - MEDIUM
Limited edition of 4 copies. Signature date numbering on the work.
Original creation. Dimensions: 60 X 60 CM. With hanging system.
Materials: fine art print on paper, glued under acrylic glass, lamination on metal plate.
LOT3: 30 X 30 CM - MINIATURE
Limited edition of 6 copies. Signature date numbering on the work.
Original creation. Size: 30 X 30 CM. With hanging system.
Materials: fine art print on paper, glued under acrylic glass, lamination on metal plate.
DIGITAL EXPERIENCE
You buy and pay, you place an order for an original numbered print
A proof is sent to a specialized laboratory for production and shipping
COLLECTIBLES & WORKS OF ART
Certificates of authenticity invoices issued to each buyer
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House museum of the circular economy and digital heritage
PATRICK NICOLAS
The soul of creation
Model N181
TEXT TO WORK
“The book is written from this solitude. Each day. You can barely hear the person breathing. We no longer know what or who we are writing for and we find ourselves writing a book that no one expects. We all want to. Take a walk. Losing the mind. We would like to be able to get lost at will. The head no longer works. The eyes no longer look. We all wish we could stand in front of a wall and wait. Let off steam. Don't hold back. We all wish we could kiss as we would fly away. The book is written on the back of one's wings when not at the top of one's lungs. I write to do nothing. We don't care if it's interesting. The painting is of no interest. It is pointless. I don't write to tell or depict. I don't write anymore. I don't know. I do not know what that means. Desire and delirium are unknown. Nobody can understand. I'm looking through the window. Everybody is here. Each person lives in a hut. Nobody knows anyone. Then there comes a moment when everything stops. We can not. It's impossible. We won't be able to do it anymore, with knots in our heads to put up a sentence that makes no sense. You must be crazy and have no other choice. When we have the choice, we don't write, that's not remembering, it's having nothing to say and saying it. » ©PN