‍A painting can move me to tears, and I don’t quite understand why. However, I do know that I’m increasingly drawn to beauty in my surroundings.

‍At a friend’s house, I stop dead in my tracks in front of a painting of a woman. A servant, I bet! Her hair, likely red, is tucked beneath a scarf adorned with delicate flowers. This old-fashioned headpiece—a bavolet, I believe—is a luminous white with rosy reflections, a color mirrored by her skirt... The skirt! An explosion of ruffles that my servant holds at arm's length; I can almost hear the rustling of the fabric.

‍My friend bought most of her paintings with her husband. Then he left, taking only one canvas and... the bed. In the charming house that now shelters her collection (and her new bed), she contemplates her artworks, discovering something new in them every day. A painting reveals its mysteries one by one. Never all of them! Art is an endless quest (and celebration!). My servant has an oblong moon for a face. No features. Only a shadow defines her jaw, her forehead... Yet she seems startled, as if I had caught her mid-motion. Is that a fireplace behind her? Perhaps this woman has just emerged from it, miraculously unscathed, the entire hearth crackling beneath her skirt... How deeply moving she is!

‍In my parents' living room, there was a painting of Lake Louise with a "splash" of white right in the middle. White ceiling paint dropped into the lake by a careless painter? Needless to say, my interest in the visual arts does not run in the family.

‍I know people who collect lithographs, oils, watercolors, etchings, and inks. Out of a pure love for art. I envy them, because I love look-ing more and more. To have close to me what I find beautiful. What speaks to me. Intrigued by her servant, I resolved to meet the artist, the painter Claude St-Jacques. She arrived at the Gala Gallery in Montreal dressed entirely in black, down to her boots. Ah, black! I was wearing it too, so as not to betray my heavy past with Lake Louise... But by the end of our long interview, I told myself that this whole "look" business was total nonsense. "When you know who you are, you don't need to look the part..." the artist maintains.

‍She is a blonde splendor with eyes so green you can see your reflection in them. Her beauty? "As a child, if I boasted, my father would look at me with eyes of holy thunder," recalls Claude St-Jacques, who grew up in 1950s Quebec. She claims she is only just beginning to speak well of herself! Upbringing truly leaves its mark... She painted from childhood and attended the École des Beaux-Arts, despite her parents' disapproval. Her husband of 30 years is her partner-in-crime, her travel companion, and her first critic. He is the one who pulls her out of her studio for meals—because if it were up to her, she would work all the time, in a sort of trance. She only paints women: "Men, I’ve tried, and it just doesn't work." The female body inspires forms that are more fluid and subtle than those of men. For a long time, the figures in her paintings had no heads. "Is it because you have no head?" some would mock... They have one now, but no face. Leaving the bodies to do the talking allows the spectator to feel a sense of calm before a painting, the artist believes. What is the use of forcing expressions onto a face when a single sway of the hips can evoke sensuality?

‍In a recent piece, a woman quietly contemplates a bird. "My daughter loves birds." Look no further than that. Why a certain tree is blue, why there is a boat at the bottom of the canvas, why, why, why... There is no explanation. For Claude St-Jacques, people just need to ask themselves if they love the canvas and if they can live with it in their home. "The rest is my own puzzle to solve," she says.

‍Her palette consists of black, dark orange, ochre, cream, and other earth tones. Recently, she has introduced blue. She once indulged in a red so untamed that it frightened her! She never believed the canvas would sell, and neither did the gallery owner who put it in the window. But an Italian man passing by fell in love with it and made it his own. There is a lot of freedom in that anecdote. The freedom of the artist, who follows her instinct. The freedom of the buyer, who listens to his heart. On both sides, freedom is important because one person's gaze is entirely different from another's.

‍Claude St-Jacques appeared to me like a lioness disguised as an antelope—a woman full of contradictions! Those are my favorite kind of people. I distrust a one-dimensional world... To make herself heard better, she doesn't raise her voice; she whispers. Especially when speaking about what she dislikes.

‍Hyperrealism, for instance. Oh, how she "hates" it! Just like still lifes, heavily slathered flowers, and static landscapes, which to her are the equivalent of "calendar art." "I wish the public were more educated," she says. She immediately catches herself on that word, which she finds condescending. She clarifies: people should be informed about what is being done in the visual arts. And insiders should talk about art in a way that is less distant, less cryptic.

‍I listened to her with absolute delight as she spoke of printmaking, transparent pigments, and special varnishes. Materials I wanted to plunge my hands into. In this digital age of endless image replication, her works are unique and tangible. To absorb them, one only needs to drink them in with their eyes.

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