«Toutes les grandes villes m''enthousiasment, cette multitude de rues et de visages, ces brusques poussées architecturales pareilles à des lignes de partitions qui convergent, s''opposent et parfois sombrent dans la confusion. Les villes, c''est la splendeur des bruits, des formes, des puanteurs, une sorte de chaos contrôlé qui reflète toutes les merveilles et la variété qui sont en nous. Ce sont des miroirs et des grottes, où le beau et le laid s''entrelacent souvent, comme une torsade de lumière et de temps.»
I loved this a lot and don't even have a particular interest in New York, and don't care for cities. But the art is utterly extraordinary-- I speculate that every single stroke, of which there are thousands of minuscule ones per image, is carefully placed ONE time, without any re-working. Whatever imperfection remains plays into perfectly intentional expression, the ink itself acting as a willing and equally skilled co-artist. I was fully transported into the feel and atmosphere of each place, the mark of true art. I love art that intentionally falls apart at the edges, areas deliberately in bones-form and not filled in, attention drawn to the areas that are filled in; faces and forms completely impressionistic and vague, but utterly communicating substance and character. I'm amazed that it's hard to get your hands on all of Fabrice Moireau's books. He almost had to have studied art in Russia. Meanwhile there are people putting a handful of dirt in an empty room as high end gallery art and enjoying great esteem and money in the art world.