One O’Clock in the Morning

"One O’Clock in the Morning” Painted with acrylics on Arches Aquarelle paper, 640 gsm.

With this painting, I wanted to strip almost every trace of warmth from the palette. The cold blues, blacks, greys and occasional flashes of white felt necessary. 

I began this painting the way night itself arrives slowly, then all at once. Dark deep blue washes and black laid across the paper first, before I went back in with acrylic and liquid wax, letting the chaos build from the top down.

I began the work the way night itself arrives, slowly at first, then all at once. I laid down deep blue washes then the colour black across the paper, first in a hap hazard chaotic way slowly building up layers of acrylic and liquid wax over the surface, allowing forms and structures to emerge from the darkness.

Inspired by Charles Baudelaire and his poem One O'Clock in the Morning, I wanted to capture the oppressive weight of midnight.

I imagined the rooftops and spires of Paris folding into one another, compressed into a dense and restless landscape.

Buildings, ladders, scaffolding and architectural fragments merge together, creating a city that feels both familiar and dreamlike, as though it is slowly collapsing inward under the cover of darkness.

The small passages of red were used sparingly. Rather than drawing attention to themselves, they seep through the composition like hidden memories or unresolved wounds. 

Subtle reminders that beneath the silence of the night something unsettled still remains.

I've spent many hours reading about the life and times of Charles Baudelaire, and I know he wasn't in control of his nights. He was simply moving through them, surviving them, one dark hour at a time.

So I painted what I imagined he moved through.His poems often inhabit those lonely hours when the city's public face disappears and something more private, vulnerable and uneasy emerges. 

I wanted to capture in paint that atmosphere of the city at one in the morning, after the performances of the day have ended and only shadows remain.

The crosses near the lower section of the composition were never planned. They appeared naturally as the painting evolved, and I chose to leave them untouched. 

Sometimes a painting reveals meanings before I fully understand them myself.

When the work was finished, I did not feel that I had created something beautiful, nor something frightening. Instead, it felt as though I had uncovered something that was already there, waiting beneath the surface. My role was simply to bring it into the light and leave it on the paper.

Baudelaire once described evening as "the criminal's friend." That phrase stayed with me throughout the making of this work, lingering in the shadows of every mark and layer.

🔸 Title: “One O'Clock in the Morning”
Medium: Synthetic polymer and liquid wax on paper.
Size: 106cm x 73cm.
Painted on Arches Aquarelle paper, 640 gsm.

SOLD

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The English version below is a translation by Ronald F. Sauer. The original French is below.

“One O'Clock in the Morning”

Alone! At last! One no longer hears but the rolling of some old carriages, belated and broken. For a few hours we shall possess silence, if not rest. At last! the tyranny of the human face has disappeared, and I shall no longer suffer but through myself.

At last! it is therefore permitted me to unwind in a bath of shadows. First, a double turn of the lock. It seems to me this turn of the key will augment my solitude and fortify the barricades that now separate me, in fact, from the world.

Horrible life! Horrible city! Let us recapitulate the day: having seen many men of letters, one of whom asked me if it were possible to travel overland to Russia (he taking, no doubt, Russia for an island); having argued magnanimously with the editor of a review, who says at each of my objections: "Honesty's the policy around here." this which implies that all the other reviews are directed by con-artists; having greeted some twenty people, among whom fifteen were unknown to me; having distributed handshakes in the same proportion, and this without having taken the precaution of buying gloves; having gone up, in order to kill time during a downpour, to the apartment of a local ladyloose, who begs me to design her a love costume of velvet; having paid my respects to the director of a theatre, who says in dismissing me: "You would perhaps do well to address yourself to Monsieur Z: he's the heaviest, drunkest, most famous of all my authors; with him perhaps you can uncork something trendy. Go see him, and then we'll see."; having boasted (why?) of many villainous things that I had never actually done, and cowardly denied other misdeeds that I accomplished with joy, brassy dereliction, criminal disrespect; having refused a good friend a small service, and given a written recommendation to a perfect idiot; ugh! is it finally over and done with?

Discontent with everybody, as well as with myself, I would like very much to redeem my soul and pride myself a little in the silence and solitude of the night. Souls of those whom I have loved, souls of those whom I have sung, fortify me, sustain me, keep me from the lying and corrupting vapors of the world; and you, Seigneur, my God! accord me the grace of producing some beautiful verses which prove to myself alone that I am not the last among men, that I am not inferior to those whom I despise!

À une heure du matin

Enfin ! seul ! On n’entend plus que le roulement de quelques fiacres attardés et éreintés. Pendant quelques heures, nous posséderons le silence, sinon le repos. Enfin ! la tyrannie de la face humaine a disparu, et je ne souffrirai plus que par moi-même.

Enfin ! il m’est donc permis de me délasser dans un bain de ténèbres ! D’abord, un double tour à la serrure. Il me semble que ce tour de clef augmentera ma solitude et fortifiera les barricades qui me séparent actuellement du monde.

Horrible vie ! Horrible ville ! Récapitulons la journée : avoir vu plusieurs hommes de lettres, dont l’un m’a demandé si l’on pouvait aller en Russie par voie de terre (il prenait sans doute la Russie pour une île) ; avoir disputé généreusement contre le directeur d’une revue, qui à chaque objection répondait : « — C’est ici le parti des honnêtes gens, » ce qui implique que tous les autres journaux sont rédigés par des coquins ; avoir salué une vingtaine de personnes, dont quinze me sont inconnues ; avoir distribué des poignées de main dans la même proportion, et cela sans avoir pris la précaution d’acheter des gants ; être monté pour tuer le temps, pendant une averse, chez une sauteuse qui m’a prié de lui dessiner un costume de Vénustre ; avoir fait ma cour à un directeur de théâtre, qui m’a dit en me congédiant : « — Vous feriez peut-être bien de vous adresser à Z… ; c’est le plus lourd, le plus sot et le plus célèbre de tous mes auteurs, avec lui vous pourriez peut-être aboutir à quelque chose. Voyez-le, et puis nous verrons ; » m’être vanté (pourquoi ?) de plusieurs vilaines actions que je n’ai jamais commises, et avoir lâchement nié quelques autres méfaits que j’ai accomplis avec joie, délit de fanfaronnade, crime de respect humain ; avoir refusé à un ami un service facile, et donné une recommandation écrite à un parfait drôle ; ouf ! est-ce bien fini ?

Mécontent de tous et mécontent de moi, je voudrais bien me racheter et m’enorgueillir un peu dans le silence et la solitude de la nuit. Âmes de ceux que j’ai aimés, âmes de ceux que j’ai chantés, fortifiez-moi, soutenez-moi, éloignez de moi le mensonge et les vapeurs corruptrices du monde, et vous, Seigneur mon Dieu ! accordez-moi la grâce de produire quelques beaux vers qui me prouvent à moi-même que je ne suis pas le dernier des hommes, que je ne suis pas inférieur à ceux que je méprise !