I put my energies principally into painting as it is for me a way of bringing forms and matter alive. Writing came to me later as it was an obvious extension to my art,  a way to express the ephemeral and make it eternal. Through my paintings I celebrate the miracle of life. As a result of my exchanges with Annick de Souzenelle and Christian Bobin, I feel an overwhelming need to talk about my life experiences, which were both dizzying and earthshaking. “A bolt of lightening was enough to block open the portals of time  and leave me in eternity”. A unique intimacy which becomes my salvation and my renewal.  On the 11 th February, the dawn of Our Lady of Lourdes, two souls were sewn together alive. Life Giver is like my little  brother, Heart-Lungs, who holds me by my hand. Between my Saviour and myself there is no distance or  separation: there is freedom.  It is a mad concentration of love for the heavens, a mouth to mouth of earth and sky. Since air entered through the broken pane, I embrace the subtle movement of life where to be is not simply following the flow of existence, it is a continual act of faith. Where the primordial vibration of the “Big bang” is  elemental and infinitely alive in a light held in everything and everywhere. I do not need to possess or own anything for I have everything and my inner wealth is unfathomable. I am delivered and yet owe so much that this very debt sets me free. Beyond body, beyond all, there where I no longer fear the future for I am one and eternal. Beyond myself, golden, beyond time, golden … You may read my autobiographical poetic narrative in my ode to the “’Âme Or” “Golden Soul” an extract  from my book … “ Greffe Sainte” “Holy transplant”

“… est un animal de peinture

qui se cache derrière ses pinceaux.

Caméléon du ciel et de ses toiles,

elle est verte quand on la croit bleue

elle est or quand on la croit noire.

Elle court, du silence de sa musique

à l’incertitude de sa vie.

Elle court d’une exposition à une aquarelle,

d’une toile symbolique à une peinture en direct.

Il ne faut retenir de cela que

les formes de son vol,

loin de la terre et de ses lourdes occupations,

loin de la brume d’un incertain lever de soleil.

C’est l’image exacte qu’on doit se faire de l’art,

une volupté d’un regard sans fin,

une lente descente vers les

profondeurs des âmes.

A force de jeter ses toiles,

elle se jette elle-même au bout du vide

et on la retrouve toujours intacte,

au milieu d’une couleur, à poursuivre sa route.

Frédérique Lemarchand est une artiste

et ce mot si simple résonne en nous

comme une évidence désespérée

de ceux qui franchissent toujours le gué.”

Texte de Max Eyrolle