"Aïni, that merciful brute"

by Frédéric Roulette,
Artistic director of galerie les Singuliers (Paris).

Aïni in his workshop - 1998

See Aïni and open to life, penetrate the stripped bare bodies, then stay here, in the existence hearth, to discover the moustached androgyne, the defrocked Rubens, big inventor of fertile humors, master artificier of the carnal magnificence and all its droppings; Aïni the unrepentant admirer of humanity under all its holes.

Rabelesian hero, Cervantesque, Aïni once rendered the mass of his dreams and, from the ripped mattress, got the divine filling out, Christic straw, which would give clay to the fate of his work. Since then, he embraces his pipe dreams in torrents of paint and mud.

Alchemist rather than plastic artist, he moulds, forces, reveals the meanders of our intermittent beings. That woman he becoms when he touches divinity never ends her labor; paintings, ceramics, sculptures, each carries in itself the vertiginous beauty of the awakened flesh.

Farandole of warrioresses - 1999

If his gesture violently shapes material, it does not hinders the organic flux that makes his colors alive, it accompanies it, takes it higher. Aïni is a virtuoso composer. With a steady wrist, he builds up his works like so many life trees full of symphonic vigor; of leaves rises an almost obscene polyphony, the author accumulates: too many frolics, desires and shouts, Aïni is Epicurus of excess, a bulimic of the envy.

His wish: to be absorbed, sex and soul by the by the cohort ot his creatures and rewrite the Genesis his own way, untill there make no mistake: as earthy as it can be, Aïni's art is only love and compassion. May it drive us forver between women thighs up to understanding wombs.