Jean Fléaca’s world is a dream of the world. A world conveyed with delicacy and restraint, through mysterious fragments and elliptical assemblages that invite us to observe, to contemplate the poetry of nature and rural life. A rabbit, a tree, a river, a reflection, an 18th-century pastoral scene, a cut-out photograph, a penciled haiku, the beginning or end of a sentence… He draws, writes, and paints—merging mediums without favoring one over the others.

Jean Fléaca only gives us part of the story—his own, and the one that becomes ours once we fill in the blanks, supply the missing words, imagine the forest, cross the river, or stumble upon Watteau.

It is a floating, vibrant journal—an evocative blend of words and lines, objects and landscapes. It gently urges us to receive these scattered, uncertain fragments of the world—tinged, perhaps, with nostalgia. Fléaca observes, then remembers, and drawing becomes the act of reconstructing those incomplete, fragmented sensations and memories. The text, never explanatory or illustrative, echoes the image like a quiet literary companion—integral to the poetic equation that emerges all the same.

He offers us landscapes in selected fragments, weaving naturalist views with objects, shapes, or figures that seem to escape from another dream—gracefully inserting themselves into the visual narrative. Visual affinities and chromatic echoes gently distort our grasp of reality.

Is the story incomplete? Not quite. Jean Fléaca captures the particular memory of things glimpsed, cherished—those that touched his wandering mind more deeply than others.

He invents an uncertain inner landscape, suspended in time. The narrative form gradually becomes familiar, as we begin to recognize ourselves in his places, his sensations, his objects—and, for a brief moment, we share the same memories as he does. We share the same world.