To accompany our exhibitions of works by Diane de Bournazel this year we are publishing this essay which originally appeared in the catalogue ‘Diane de Bournazel: livres uniques, peintures, dessins’ / texte de Michel Pastoureau; postface de Justin Croft (Paris: Librairie Métamorphoses, 2024).
We will be exhibiting a selection of recent work at the Boston Book Fair, November 2024
Diane de Bournazel makes unique books ― each an enchanted universe. Days of painstaking drawing, hand colouring, collage, papercutting and binding combine to create unique stories-without-words which are richly layered, poetic, moving, and occasionally breathtaking. Her books find admirers and devotees wherever they are shown and have rightly become highly prized by collectors. Her themes are those of life and death itself, of childhood, love, loss and longing. Since everyone experiences these universals as part of their own unique story, De Bournazel’s visual meditations are always open to interpretation and reinterpretation. Every encounter, even with the same book, yields new insights as new details appear and new connections are noticed between the pages. This is a rich symbolic world, full of unexpected resonances and symmetries.
The artist’s studio in the small hamlet of Marliac is set within an old garden whose cultivated borders have long since been breached by wilder interlopers. Hedgerow vines hang thick at the studio door and self-seeded windblown saplings appear among the shrubs. They are tolerated, like the small birds and mammals who visit the kitchen terrace nearby. In the deep shade of an overhanging lime tree, we discovered a colony of helleborine orchids, their unearthly green and purple blooms seen only by slow flying wasps made drunk on their fermenting nectar. Such flowers participate in a secret underground communion of species, in anciently established symbiosis with neighbouring tree roots ― the orchids taking nutrients from the tree via networks of microscopic and little-understood fungi linking species in what has memorably been dubbed the ‘wood wide web’. Diane de Bournazel wouldn’t claim to be a naturalist, but it’s precisely this kind of silent communication she expresses instinctively in her art. Everywhere are intertwining branches creating a dense mesh of congruence between characters ― animal, human and hybrid ― in a mysterious ecology of thought, of feeling and of action. A couple might sit in mutual isolation, perhaps in a tree, eyeing each other with neutral expression, apparently unaware of the branches and roots beneath them linking them irrevocably, or of swirling currents in the air around drawing them into communion with each other, and with the drama of a wider world spread out across the pages of a book. Elsewhere another pair stands and faces us, each in their allotted place on opposing pages, separated by the vertical fold of the book’s gutter. Yet they too are connected, perhaps despite themselves, by the plant tendrils in which they shelter and by outlandish branches reaching upwards to the cosmos above ― where phases of the moon mark the slow shift of time.
In almost every case Diane de Bournazel’s works express the interconnection of the human, animal, vegetal and spiritual worlds. Her hybrid forms suggest that in fact the artist makes no distinction between these realms. An animal can share a home with a man or woman, for example, and a single flower can appear as a character in its own right, perhaps larger even than the sentient forms around it. Time and again a human can merge with an animal or plant producing figures reminiscent of classical mythology or the mermaids and grotesques inhabiting the liminal surfaces of medieval buildings and manuscripts. Of course, these ancient archetypes are an influence, but the artist insists she is no medievalist. Her metamorphoses speak as clearly of contemporary life and of twenty first century environmental concerns as they do of the belief systems of the past. Some have even seen in her work traces of recent quantum physics ― a plurality of worlds, epochs and dimensions all existing at once, just occasionally linked by wormholes or slits in the fabric of the universe.
Such richness of meaning is astonishing given the apparent simplicity of the materials used by the artist. Each work springs from the unique qualities of these. More-often-than-not it is the paper itself which sets the act of creation in motion. A single quire of eight leaves, unstitched, may lie unmarked on the artist’s desk for days, to be held, turned over in the hands, repeatedly opened and closed, while she assays its particular texture and character. The paper is usually supplied by the maître papetier Jean-Pierre Gouy whose workshop is just fifteen minutes away from Marliac and where he manufactures a variety of exceptional rag papers as well as others made from other organic materials such as nettles. Each blank sheet is to some extent unique, especially with its deckled edges left uncut, a tactile and dynamic surface.
The images are applied gradually and they rarely follow the order of the leaves as they are turned from the front to the back of the gathering. Paper cutting is done by hand, opening windows between leaves or just small holes through which can be glimpsed the surfaces below. It’s a piecemeal activity but never haphazard. Each cut is final, part of an overall scheme, overlapping other holes which will later be viewed from multiple perspectives; a series of openings may even pierce the whole book from front to back making a window from the first to the last page. There is then a degree of geometrical or architectural planning where all the dimensions of the finished book are envisaged, but always leaving room for the magic of chance and improvisation as the images are applied. The scraps cut away are not discarded and some find their way back as subtle elements of collage, usually indiscernible to the eye but evident to the fingers as the pages are held. Lines are applied in ink, the spaces between filled with colour as the book’s scheme is developed and the paper begins to yield its story. The leaves may be opened and closed a hundred times before the book is completed and sometimes they will travel with the artist, from Marliac to Paris, or points between and beyond, there to be reopened and worked on again in a new context. Only when the pages are filled to their maximum extent is the book ready for binding. Appropriate materials are selected for its covers (now mainly from the distinctive marbled papers made by Marianne Peter, another Corrèze neighbour) and the pages are passed to a binder (usually Armelle Guégant of Montargis).
Portability is one of the special characteristics of De Bournazel’s work ― a virtue born originally from necessity. Moving from Corrèze to Paris in the 1990s the artist experienced not just a change of place but also of space and pace. With a young family her time and physical environment compressed, so that her artistic practice had to adapt to survive. She found herself exchanging larger scale pieces for ones which could be contained in a notebook and worked upon in the narrower spaces familiar to artists who work within the context of familial life. It was here that the conception of her unique artist’s books was formed. In time, this contraction of scale came to define her work as she pushed the notebook form to the boundaries of its capabilities, filling pages to their fullest extent and beginning to cut windows between them in a way which prefigures the incredible multi-dimensional codices she is now best known for.
Bibliophiles don’t need to be reminded of the special qualities of a book ― the pleasure of turning pages and feeling the unique qualities of their binding, the intense and intimate connection between the pages and the reader and so on ― but the genius with which Diane de Bournazel has harnessed these sensations in the service of her art is spellbinding. Hers are not just books containing images, but are total, self-sufficient works of art asking to held in the hand, just as they were made, turned one way and another, lingered over, opened and closed again and again, each time revealing new facets, new conjunctions of images, new narratives and new meanings.
Looking at a new De Bournazel book I’m sometimes reminded of the diaries, albums and commonplace books made by women in the past. Not because they resemble them superficially but because they seem freighted with a similar density of personal experience and emotion. Those earlier books were private spaces for words and images, an interiority shared only with a close circle of family or friends. Opening them long after the lifetimes of their makers can feel like an intrusion, and yet one surely envisaged by their artists and writers, who, after all, put pen and brush to paper to give physical expression to their thoughts. Books ― uniquely among other media ― provide spaces for such intimate thought and expression in a way that art for public display does not. Opening one of De Bournazel’s unique books brings with it similar feelings.
In recent years the artist has also created a significant body of work in which she has returned to the single panel format. These include large and intricate drawings on paper, several series of monotypes, drawings on paper embossed with broken slates and a compelling set of repurposed students’ drawing boards. In each case she has expanded the vocabulary of her unique books, creating intensely complex symbolic fields. Many themes from the books reappear ― notably the hybrid forms and the sinuous chains which connect them across the graphic surface. Like the books, these works contain a narrative element, yet one to be explored in single sweeps of the gaze in which meaning unravels itself, scroll-like, across the pictures. They also let us explore more deeply De Bournazel’s ability to create figures from negative space, which emerge from the spaces between the applied colour. This is especially apparent in her repainted drawing boards. These boards came to her from the art school studios of friends, in familiar and uniform sizes, each bearing layers of accidental colour and line, the remnants of other works by a succession of students. To these panels, the artist has brought a new existence. Applying thick black shadows she coaxes from them new worlds ― metamorphic dances of figures, beasts and plants. It has been a uniquely satisfying exercise to place each of these recent pieces alongside the books with which they share an artistic heritage.
One might ask what De Bournazel’s books are about? It’s a fair question and not easy to answer. They are almost entirely without words and yet clearly born of poetry, and their enigmatic titles, sometimes borrowings from archaic or idiomatic French, suggest themes. Our deeply ingrained expectations of books prompt us to search for narrative or argument as the pages are turned and in this we are never disappointed, even without words. In my experience, ‘readers’ of these books soon find their own stories within the pages, recognising the universals in their symbolism and piecing together chronologies according to their own mood or personality. I’m fortunate to have exhibited Diane’s books around the world and I’m always struck by the readiness with which those who see them are prepared to offer explanations or trace stories in them. They are always different and say as much about the reader as the maker.
Personally, I find within these books an acute perception of the human condition, both in microcosm and macrocosm. One page might tell of a private grief, an unexpressed anxiety, an unresolved conflict or a quiet joy. Another may tell of the way we’re bound to the past, the ghosts of half-remembered ancient belief concealed in the margins of our consciousness. Another still will place us in a never-ending chain of being ― spiritual or ecological. But rational interpretation is usually fruitless. This is poetry, not prose. Of the very few words Diane has written of her work, this for me remains its best explanation:
‘Poésie sans paroles.
Il s’agit bien de ça.
Mettre en images le monde et l’arrière monde,
Comme un poète mais sans mot dire’
(Justin Croft, 2024).
The ‘confessional’ in 1950s-built St Hugh’s was nothing like the comedy baroque chambers you see in the films—it was more like a well-maintained public convenience. If you were lucky, it would be Father Rourke behind the curtain, who was rather deaf and whose gentle Irish accent was so impenetrable that you couldn’t be upset by his response. He would listen to your confession and then invite you to consider ‘crushing the head of the serpent’, sending you away to recite three Hail Marys or an Act of Contrition.
However, I realise we were not the first to come up with this solution. In fact, in the seventeenth-century cleric Christophe Leuterbreuver, had published a remarkable little pocket book along this line which became a bestseller, running to numerous editions. It was more than just a list though—being a fully-fledged livre à système incorporating hundreds of folding slips. I have now owned several copies of this book, the earliest being printed in 1695 the latest in 1751.
The sinner can mark the entries relevant to him or her by lifting the corresponding printed slips and then replacing them later so that no-one need ever know what was confessed. In reality, the lifted slips were often folded to mark them more clearly and it is, of course, intriguing to see which of the hundreds of sins have been marked. 
The book as a whole provides an uncommonly intimate view of the soul, akin to listing at the door of the confessional. The sins are set out according to the Ten Commandments and provide a glittering array of human failings. This is not a book for children and one wonders whether its popularity was as much because it provided such a panorama of the dark side of the soul. The list of sins for the ninth commandment, for example includes memoranda for ‘Avoir eu des pensées & des désirs lascifs. Y avoir eu de la délectation… Avoir prêté consentement aux illusions nocturnes… Avoit employé l’art magique des breuvages, & choses semblables, pour engager quelque personne en amour… Avoir dit des chansons lascives. Avoir dit les contes, & tenu des entretiens lascifs. Avoir fait des billets & écrits lascifs. Avoir eu, lû, & donné les Livres lascifs… Avoir jetté des regards déshonnêtes…’
This time last year, I had just returned from a visit to Scandinavia. In my bag was this tiny book, found on the shelves of a Copenhagen bookshop, where it was hidden in the triple-shelved books of the theology section, wedged beside the water pipes. I had recognised the binding as being in the style of the Guild of Women Binders, with its modelled goatskin covers. Though an old pencilled note in the front suggested that the cover depicted Pan with his flute, the image looked more like a Burne-Jones angel to me. The book itself is an unremarkable edition of the Imitatio Christi by Thomas a Kempis. The binding is dated 1896.
National Museums Liverpool
The binding has been positively identified as the work of one ‘Miss Maclagan’, probably a pupil of Annie McDonald, who has carefully copied a detail of Burne-Jones’s original, probably from a photographic reproduction. Graham Hogg has also discovered that this very book was exhibited at the 1898 London exhibition of the Guild, where it was item 93 and exhibited as an example of the work of the Edinburgh School.
A few days ago I visited the ancient town of King’s Lynn. It was a memorable trip, not least for being booked-ended by glimpses of the great medieval cathedrals of Peterborough (underrated, I think) and Ely (the much-loved ‘Ship of the Fens’). Lynn, once one of the busiest sea-ports in Europe, had an eerie autumnal quietness; low clouds hung over the fenland approaches and the tide was disquietingly high in the Ouse estuary.
The King’s Lynn Red Register is then, the earliest surviving English paper book. I realise that, had I been paying attention, I would have noticed it even has its own blue plaque outside the town-hall, though it doesn’t tell us why it’s important.
I’m fascinated by the people who made medieval administrative records. It seems to me that, just like the IT wizards of the 21st century, it is they who were experimenting with new technologies for recording day-to-day experience. The Red Register of Lynn is perhaps just one example of how far ahead of their time they could be. They were often people of extraordinary capability and imagination. It’s no coincidence that people such as Geoffrey Chaucer, controller of customs at London, was also a full-time administrative writer. It has been argued that the explosion of English lay-literacy in the fourteenth century came about in part through advances in literate technology among administrators in the great towns of England. That is another story and one I’m certainly encouraged to revisit after my archival explorations at Lynn…
