CONTEMPORARY POET AND WRITER OF MAX BUCAILLE
Even if chemistry, tomorrow, transforms us at will into blissful fools or desperate robots, there will always be freedom. It lies behind the lips of wood, the waves of marble. There, aimless celebrations take place, appointments without a set time that no one can miss. There, the fish without water, the salamander without fire, rhyme without poem, and the tail without a head revel without paying anything. Bucaille offers us today the keys to this supreme childhood where we may, soon perhaps, go into hiding.
— Jean ROUSSELOT
ART CRITIC AND WRITER, JEAN-JACQUES LEVEQUES BEARS WITNESS
Bucaille explored the shimmering and dark forests like a loveless night where the trees have a thousand gazes harsher than the looks of some fabulous creatures halfway between the desire of their creator and the defeat of their birth. This leaves them with strange accoutrements from a hodgepodge to awaken the unexplored areas of our ancestral memories.
— Jean-Jacques LEVEQUES
IRÈNE, HIS WIFE, IN THEIR HOUSE IN CRÉTEIL.
Loving tranquility and nature, they regularly visited their second home in Clairefontaine, in the Yvelines, where Max conceived a part of his works, including paintings and sculptures.
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