There was the black of Soulages, there is the red of Rocher. So much emotion concentrated in a single color, that we rediscover and that speaks to us as if suddenly we surrender to be blind and deaf. Of course, there are its oranges, its bruises, its ochres, all these shades of which it has the word – but why do I feel that they are all born of its red? Is it the obsession of the heart, this pulsed border of death that beats in the hollow of its paintings? Is it his shamanic experience that makes blood the sap of a reconciled world where the plant kingdom reminds us of who we are? The door of colours, at Noemie Rocher, leads to self-knowledge in the fusion of the reigns:
it is the “spokesman” of the silence rustling of nature and our emotions killed. For shamans, man is the dream of the plant. Noemie retraces the course of this dream to open our eyes to the reality of a world that originally only wanted us good. Only his blindness has discolored the man.

Didier Van Cauwelaert