Sylvie Eyberg collects images from old magazines. Over time, the photographs begin to sort themselves. A particular framing gradually takes hold. She cuts out fragments and pastes them into notebooks. From these small constellations, certain images rise to the surface and are enlarged. She works them through contrast and scale, printing them in photogravure or silkscreen: subtle greys, occasional yellow, and now red for Venice.

She applies the same method to language. Many of her small-format works include a black or white block containing a short text, composed from found phrases cut directly from magazines. In the large silkscreens, the poem is cut out as a single uninterrupted piece from the original page and placed beneath the image. The typography remains unchanged. It acknowledges the source. Meanwhile, the image retains its visible secondhand texture: the coarse, bitten presence of Ben-Day dots confirms that it comes from elsewhere.

For Eyberg, surface is a kind of skin. It invites a gaze with the same tact that the image itself possesses. Each print has its own complexion. Soft or rough, powdered or sharp, dry or humid, grainy, flaking, sweating. The screen pattern in her work stands apart from the glossy surfaces that dominate the world today, including much of contemporary art. It insists on an image that keeps its matter. That remembers where it came from.