“When you enter Pierre Seinturier’s studio and discover him there, standing before his canvases, you immediately wonder whether it’s his painting that resembles him, or whether it’s he, with his hair, his faded gaze, and his light blonde tobacco, who resembles his painting. A painting made of amber suns, sepia bloodstains, and women’s skin never lighter than fresh butter. As you continue to ask yourself this question, it becomes hard to believe that he’s unaware of the confusion he’s created. Could he be playing with it? Is it a calculated look, a carefully studied style, or a natural way of living his life as a painter and painting his life? Strangely, even though Pierre Seinturier seems to have stepped out of one of his oil-on-paper works, he doesn’t practice self-portraiture, nor does he pursue any autobiography, let alone autofiction. His canvases and papers pinned to the walls of the studio seem to form a kind of ‘autography,’ whose decoys, markers, and hooks are tailfinned Buicks, gunshots, flying saucers from not-quite-old films, and mysteries from detective stories with impossible riddles—like a storyboard found in the closet of a ruined Hollywood producer.”