THERESA AKLIN-SCHWEIZER

1946 Born in Emmenbrücke in Switzerland
1967 - 1970 School of Fine Arts, Lucerne and Geneva
1970 Marriage with Ernst Aklin, 5 children
1985 - 1986 One year in Mauritius
Since 1987 lives and works in the south of France
Since 1970 exhibitions in Switzerland, in France and in the United Kingdom

Even though sometimes one is tempted to say that flowers are made for women, there are also some women who are made for flowers. The latter is the case of Theresa Aklin, who for many years has been looking deeply in the soporific spaces beneath the extended corollas of flowers. In this atmosphere she lives her dreams and brings back armful of images; images of opalent seas, of eternal sunsets mirrored over the oceans, sandy beaches bathed in foam, skies, repeatedly skies plus fringes of clouds and enchanted countrysides.

"What is a flower?" she asked constantly "What is it made of and how? Could I through them find the cure for my troubled soul?"

"This flower that you seek to understand is perhaps a sweet heavenly orb that dances on its stalk," answers a butterfly with a caress of its wings.

Undoubtedly, all the mysteries of the world have been conceived in the hearts of flowers. The secret gestation of the seeds, the fermentation of the sugars, colours and perfumes given in the space of a heartbeat, a glance into eternity - so speak the artist's works.

The descent into the calyxes and into the spiralled cornets where the carpeted cavities are paved with voracious pistils is an obligation. In those depths, suffocated by silence, waves of pleats and creases, lie side by side or undulate over one another, like an envelope of fleshy material.
These intimate visions, dependent on the brevity of light, are sketched in hesitant hues, fragile and distressing, suspending at the extremeties of the corollas, ready to fall in the dew hungry funnels.

The flowers are vaporized in the dusk of the dawn, they are cut up by the scissors of the frost, the flux of sunsets and the languor of the autumn afternoons. Crazy, lily - like with the iridescence of molten silver; they are also exalted, rusty, waxy, held together by the blond weight of the pollen. They open up at the edge of the nights like a woman's sex, shivering under pearly lips, pregnant with seedlings.

The birth of other works is imminent.

Jean-Pierre CRAMOISAN