My artistic approach has always been uncertain; my gesture, born from impulse.
Throughout the past exhibitions, I have tried to define myself. I convinced myself that my approach was one of exploring reality; that my painting was a language, similarly to music, science, speech; a way of grasping things that escape our understanding.
I adopted the vision of the anthropologist Philippe Descola who approaches artistic practices from the angle of figuration, defined as a universal process, the expression of the way humans "are inserted into the folds of the world", and therefore, attentive to certain aspects of it.
And, in the same way that my thoughts sooner or later end up wrapping around themselves, I began to go in circles, in this story that I was telling myself. But was it the right one? Was it true?
I was no longer able to let the disorder I needed to create arise. I was now planning, calculating, explaining, thinking, defining.
After a few months of wandering, I needed colours. Intensely. Deeply. Imperiously. I experimented with new gestures. A new way to suspend my flow of thoughts. A new way of painting.
I don't know what needing colours could mean. But, at least for a moment, I will avoid putting this feeling into words. I want to hang on to it, as long as possible, until the return of the perpetual calculations that usually mobilize my train of thought.
So, today, I claim the right to do something useless, which has no goal, no objective, no message, no scope. I don't want to answer the question of beauty, meaning or reason. I want to cultivate the absence of intention, the absence of meaning.
I ask permission to remain silent.
