With Patrick Loste, it goes with men as places which, far from dividing themselves into singular beings and sites, bring us back to a certain original state of the world, to primitive forms: sorts of archetypes from which can arise, by derivation, multiplicity. We said it at the beginning: here forms do not arise in painting, but give rise to it. Thus the rider: the figure dear to the painter. Do we have to remember that we are there near Spain and that undoubtedly, these silhouettes born from a few lively lines interact in painting, with other works painted, not far away, by other artists, a long time ago? All this is just, incontestable, but insufficient, if not reductive. Because Patrick Loste does not paint a biographical confidence or a scholarly reference. These paintings are not stories but places. And if the comparison to us of the cave art of prehistoric times. Less for the physical resemblance – earth colors, use of the accidents of the support – than for this way of practicing an art without anecdote, an art or the figure, as isolated in time, creates a space which one calls painting. A space to move. A space which, like a call, summons the spectator.