Roguish, Clémence Amette’s drawings are anything but academic. They are childlike games, created by accident and for her own pleasure. Cookie, cactus, chalet, mouth, or slippers… Everyday objects mingle with blurry shapes that she calls “blots.” Yet in these charades made of casual sketches, the image comes before the word, the final touch also applied instinctively. Lines of humor or little mood notes, these almost automatic writings convey messages—sometimes long, sometimes brief, sometimes personal—in capital letters or in tiny, scrawled handwriting, on thick paper. Their texture creates surprise, following the random rhythm of sketches drawn with a lively gesture, close to calligraphy. Recently, Clémence Amette doodles on a screen, meanwhile modifying the palette of her personal journal, originally in red and black. Mustard, lavender, tangerine, indigo… Bright, seasonal colors playfully tease the reserved area—the white space where hand and word regain their breath. Unfinished, these impressions, enhanced with ink and pastel, in turn evoke the spontaneity of the moment.