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François Dejardin marche à toutes les frontières et nous en ramène des œuvres comme des confidences. Qu'il s'agisse de vidéo, de photo, de dessins, de textes ou de peinture, tout semble être le fruit d'une aventure intime, aux confins où nous sommes très peu nombreux à nous rendre. Ce qu'il ramène de ses voyages nous plonge alors dans une expérience captivante où tout nous paraît à la fois proche et lointain. Une forêt calme, en pleine nuit, nous rassure tout en rappelant les cauchemars de la petite enfance. Une ferme se dresse, immense, devant un promeneur solitaire sur la bosse d'un horizon à bout portant. Un tas de bois mort sous la neige va brûler nos certitudes. Un ciel trop menaçant se verra bombardé d'étoiles à vœux. Un gravier de choses sans destination dans les yeux du Petit Poucet lui permettra de rentrer chez lui. Des enfants, dans leur toute-puissance fragile, nous conseillent de rester concentrés dans notre jeu. L'aube, comme une délivrance, devient la preuve que la nuit fut terrible. Le fond du jardin, qui n'a plus rien à nous apprendre, surgit comme une information de dernière minute. Un arbre noueux, solidement ancré, se met à danser, puis fond pour retrouver sa forme initiale. Les paysages ressemblent à des cartes postales de 14-18, qui viennent d'arriver dans notre boîte mail après être passées par le cloud. Une image satellite trace des triangulations entre les continents, pour finir en petit archipel de pénicilline collé sur une lame de verre sous l'œil d'un microscope électronique. Une fleur n'a pas peur d'être belle comme une chromolithographie, avant de se diluer dans le tableau d'un désert peint par une main surréaliste. C'est de l'humanité et de l'exil. François Dejardin n'a rien à cacher, et c'est mystérieux.

Texte : Werner Moron ( 2024 )

Photos : François Dejardin ( 2024 )

Avec : Élise Morel, Camille Dupont, Léa Garnier, Moi-même

Préface de mon ami Werner Moron à retrouver sur mon site https://www.polykrom.be

Octobre 2024

Hands That Speak Without Words

In the Quiet Corners of a Village

In a small village of Telangana, when the afternoon sun becomes soft and the shadows grow long, there is a kind of silence that feels full.

Not empty. Not lonely.

Just full.

Inside a simple mud house, an old artisan sits on the floor. No music. No talking. Only the slow movement of his hands.

Outside, you can hear goats passing, a child laughing, a distant dappu sound from somewhere in the village.

But inside, there is only stillness.

And in that stillness, his hands are speaking.

Not with words. But with feeling.

A Language Older Than Words

In Telangana, tribal mask-making is more than a craft. It is a language.

A language that does not need letters or books.

For generations, these masks have been part of village life. Used in rituals, festivals, and storytelling, they carry voices of gods, spirits, animals, and ancestors.

When someone wears a mask, they do not just perform. They transform.

And behind every mask, there are hands that created it.

Hands that learned not from schools, but from watching. From doing. From living.

This craft has no written history. But it has memory.

And that memory lives in the hands.

Where Hands Become Storytellers

The process begins simply.

A lump of clay or paper rests quietly in front of the artisan.

He touches it gently. Not rushing. Not forcing.

Slowly, the shape begins to form. A forehead. A nose. Lips that seem ready to speak.

His fingers move like they already know the path.

No measurements. No machines.

Only experience.

The mask is left to dry, resting under the warm Telangana sun. Like grains laid out after harvest.

Then comes color.

Yellow like turmeric in every kitchen. Red like kumkum on festival mornings. Black like the deep sky after sunset.

Each stroke is steady. Careful.

The eyes are painted last. Always last.

Because once the eyes are done… the mask begins to look back.

And in that moment, the hands fall silent. Their work is complete.

Lives Woven Into Every Line

The artisans who create these masks live simple lives.

They wake up early. Sweep their homes. Fetch water. Work in the fields. Take care of family.

And in between all this, they sit down to create.

A father shows his son how to hold the clay. A mother teaches her daughter how to paint a straight line.

There are no big lessons. Only small, repeated moments.

Mistakes are not scolded. They are corrected with patience.

And slowly, the hands learn.

There is pride, but it is quiet.

No one says, “I am an artist.” But their hands say everything.

The Struggles Behind the Silence

But these hands also carry weight.

Work is not always steady. Some days there are orders. Many days there are none.

Selling the masks is not easy. Markets are far. Prices are low. Middlemen take a share.

Machine-made items come quickly, cheaply. But without soul.

Young people see this and hesitate. They want something more stable. More certain.

And slowly, fewer hands continue the craft.

An artisan may spend hours shaping, painting, finishing… and still worry about daily needs.

But even then, the hands do not stop.

Because for them, stopping means silence of a different kind. A silence where tradition fades.

Support That Tries to Reach

There are efforts to support artisans.

Government schemes, fairs, and exhibitions try to bring their work into the light. Some artisans receive help. Some get opportunities to travel and showcase their craft.

But many still wait.

Information does not always reach every village. Access is not easy.

There is movement, yes. But it is slow.

And in that gap, many hands continue working quietly, hoping to be seen.

Why These Hands Still Matter

In a world that moves fast, these hands remind us to slow down.

They show us that not everything needs speed. Some things need time.

These masks carry culture, belief, and identity. They are not perfect.

And that is their beauty.

Each small imperfection tells us that a human hand made it.

This craft also respects nature. Materials are simple, local, close to the soil.

More than anything, it keeps a way of life alive.

If these hands stop, we lose more than a craft. We lose a voice.

What We Feel Without Words

When someone holds a handmade mask, something happens quietly.

There are no loud emotions.

Just a feeling.

A connection.

You begin to imagine the hands that made it. The home it came from. The time it took.

And without words, you understand—

this is not just an object. It is a story.

A story told by hands.

A Quiet Call to Listen

Next time you see a craft like this, pause.

Look beyond the colors. Look beyond the design.

Try to see the hands behind it.

You don’t need to buy everything.

But you can respect. You can understand. You can value.

Because when you do that, you give these hands a reason to continue speaking.

Closing Thoughts

In the quiet villages of Telangana, under soft lights and open skies, hands continue their work.

They shape. They paint. They create.

Without noise. Without attention.

But with deep meaning.

Because some stories are not told through words.

They are told through touch. Through patience. Through generations.

And if we listen carefully, we will hear them.

To know more about this living heritage, visit:

https://tribalmasktg.com

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