They are all asking me to write a biography but a biography is to lay bare and I have long gone passed the age of laying bare!
A biography is a succession of landmarks, dates, it’s a beaconed path. What is relevant, is what is hiding behind the beacons. And that is my work. For who knows how to read, they are the ones who tell.
To satisfy, I could tell you that my artistic birth dates around 2005, with a pile of clay, under the beautiful light of Rome.
It’s true and it’s untrue. An artistic birth doesn’t stand on one date but on several lives’ decanting. The proof is that in another life, in my childhood, I was already messing about with mud creating age-old oaks which had as many branches as roots.
I can also tell you that I never did any drawings except at school, that I never entered l’ « Ecole des Beaux Arts », the « Drawing University », or the « Sculpture Faculty ». I have none of the diplomas that make an artist. In fact, I have no diplomas at all! I thus became a journalist!
But one day, the words did not suffice any more. They didn’t have the necessary elasticity to represent the emotions. They locked up their meaning in a straitjacket of letters.
Whereas the matter can be torn apart, distorted, kneaded, blended. It can be altered, amputated, carved. Words couldn’t cope and my hands wanted to talk. They knew how to extract the griefs, the wrench, the anguish, everything that battles in a body that doesn’t show.