Painting allows me to see what connects me to the world, what makes me say and know that I exist. It is also a way of organically realizing the essence of an individual approach to the world – something that each individual strives to understand to the best of their ability, painter or not.

Then, questions arise whose answers I invent.  All of them confirm this to me: I am what I paint, I do not paint what I am.  I have known, over the time spent in the workshop, that “I” is a plastic presence in the world, that my instinct is that of the tool – knowing that the gestures, my gestures, distort or refine, distance or arrive at this reality.

Brushes, a canvas, color and the desire to go there, it is through this trivial means that emotion unfolds beyond and beneath our dramas.

Could a painter show the indiscernible? I prefer to think of it as the wonder of darkness conquered by light.

Painting: to provoke the encounter of a sign and an intention. Painting holds, vibrates and moves only by the force of style, by the clairvoyance exercised in choosing the solutions induced by the materiality of things: the graphs, the colors, the contours and detours that light will make visible.

The palette: I spotted mine. Blue and orange, pink and sky blue, the enchantment of color relationships, their affection. Let the cold and the heat sing, let the stains live together. Color theory exists for a reason.

Seeking, exhuming, destroying and building, in an attempt to reach the gold buried in the body of the world, away from what mithridatizes us. Tenacity sometimes takes the form of rage. The technique, little by little, develops without becoming a system (dry repetition).  This is what I strive for, without forcing.

Balance, clarity and simplicity, these injunctions peculiar to classicism should make it possible to reach a real expressive power. The resort to anecdote, the exploitation of parody, the political manifesto almost always exclude creative singularity.

When the figurative physiognomies emerge from the background of the canvas, I let them come, without forcing or trapping them, otherwise they would flee from my sight.  They seem to be held under a yoke of torture and I know that I am there, beholding them, voyeur and progenitor, thus becoming responsible for their fate. without doubt they are the expression of an ecce homo whose biography has crossed the unreachable – he who, from now on, lives in a ship of fools caught in the storm in a song of ruins. We’re the bad guys, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.