In the West, “the user experiences no need to invest himself in his writing... A good domination of the utensil, but no hallucination of the stroke, of the tool; thrust back into pure applications, writing is never understood as the interplay of a pulsion.”
In the East, “the stroke excludes erasure or repetition [the eraser doesn’t exist]… Everything in the instrumentation, is directed toward the paradox of an irreversible and fragile writing, which is simultaneously, contradictorily, incision and glissade…”
Roland Barthes, Empire of Signs

Edo has no gender, no time, no rules. Edo is a flow from left to right and then from right to left, from the completed interweaving to its expansion, free and delicate like a pulsion, a wave, an ineluctable and perpetual motion. It happens. The lines intersect, flow, are interrupted and resume, leaving fields unresolved, open to the user’s interpretation.

Writing is not taught, the narrative arises spontaneously, “a game of juxtapositions where we ourselves combine the individual elements through operations of division and withdrawal. The meaning seems to stop or rather to be suspended. They [the signs] are ultimately empty, because they do not refer to an ultimate signified (...) there is no supreme signifier to anchor the chain of signs, there is no keystone, which permits signs to flourish with great subtlety and freedom.” (Roland Barthes)

Edo’s works are ink on cotton paper, the strokes are bold and sure, leaving a trace of their passage, bearing witness to a path. The drop expands where it falls, inevitably certain, creating movement that catches us like a breath. The paper is alive with a dynamic sequence, a language, a vocabulary suggested to us by its author.

A passionate vision that turns us into participants and authors at the same time. A reference to a dialogue in ending or liberating, intuiting or defining that infinite field of possibilities that become our choices. The circle, and then, again, the spiral, perpetual motion of the expanding universe, the lattices and stratifications, sedimentations of time, the fulfillment of a precise and knowledgeable interweaving.

More marked, decisive lines, like wounds or cuts, alternate with languid flows on which drops, one by one, inevitably find a place, punctuating this personal and intimate revelation.