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Belgian sculptor Johan Creten, based in Paris, has built a practice since the 1980s that refuses to separate material from the questions shaping contemporary life. Ceramics, bronze, drawing and installation are not isolated disciplines in his work, but different ways of addressing memory, communication, beauty, illness and the human mind.

In this interview around Les Chiens de Pavlov, Creten’s career emerges less as a story about devotion to ceramics than as a sustained resistance to categories.

From painting to clay: finding an open territory

Creten entered art school in Ghent intending to become a painter. In the 1980s, he recalls, there were so many painters that he found himself working in a corridor. Among his friends were Wim Delvoye and Jan van Imschoot.

Elsewhere in the school, however, was an almost empty ceramics studio. Carmen Dionyse allowed him to work there. His first response to clay was physical rather than theoretical: it was dirty, wet and bizarre, but capable of receiving emotion with remarkable immediacy.

Its marginal position was equally important. Creten remembers thinking:

“There’s something to do. There’s something to open.”

Clay became meaningful partly because the territory surrounding it appeared unoccupied.

Why Johan Creten rejects the ceramic label

Creten’s relationship with the medium remains deliberately paradoxical. “I hate ceramics because it puts you in a category,” he says.

What he rejects is not clay itself, but the reduction of artistic practice to specialist knowledge: firing temperatures, glaze recipes or technical mastery treated as an end in itself.

The exhibition instead moves freely between drawings, bronzes, installations, ceramics and objects that resist straightforward definition.

For Creten, this is precisely what art should do. He asks:

“But isn’t art just the opposite?” before offering an almost programmatic instruction: “look with a fresh eye, look with a new eye, ask questions.”

Material freedom and critical freedom become inseparable.

Beauty, anxiety and communication

That freedom does not imply withdrawal from difficult subjects. Creten speaks openly about doom, despair, sickness and the impossibility of communication, while insisting equally on beauty.

For him, the two are not opposites:

“I’ve always been able to push that through the strength of beauty.”

Beauty is therefore not presented as decoration or escape. It is a means of carrying disturbing ideas without diminishing their force.

Discussing the Odore de Femminas, Creten moves from illness to the difficulty of communication between people. The question becomes elemental:

“What is bringing you and me together?”

Inaccessible memory

Memory becomes central through an installation made from computers collected by Creten’s father from the 1980s onwards.

After his father’s death, Creten decided to transform the machines into an artwork. Their significance lies in a contemporary paradox: devices created to store and process information can themselves become unreadable.

“I think that these computers are about inaccessible memory.”

Creten contrasts them with an experience at the Vatican Library. A fourteenth-century book can still be taken from a shelf and read. Information stored on computers only a few decades old may already have vanished behind obsolete systems.

The installation becomes an exploration of memory, time and illness.

From the electronic brain to the human brain

The argument becomes deeply personal when Creten describes his father as an intellectual, a reader and a thinker who collected computers for study, before developing dementia and Alzheimer’s disease at the end of his life.

While installing the exhibition, an ordinary event suddenly brings these subjects together. Creten buys and cooks lamb’s brains, a food associated with childhood memories, and feels compelled to photograph them.

“this is the perfect metaphor for what we’re living today. Fried brain.”

The phrase connects several layers at once: the human brain, the failed computer, contemporary overload, inaccessible memory and the illness of his father.

What initially appears to be a reflection on technology becomes a meditation on the fragility of memory itself.

Glaze as an image of the unconscious

Creten finally returns to ceramics. In certain sculptures, he describes the underlying form as a representation of the unconscious, while glaze spreads across it like an organic surface.

Material is therefore never merely material. Physical transformation becomes a way of giving form to mental and psychological processes.

From an empty ceramics studio in Ghent to a glaze resembling the folds of a brain, Les Chiens de Pavlov reveals a consistent principle: Johan Creten uses sculpture to open what appears closed — an artistic category, an inaccessible memory, a relationship between two people or a buried layer of consciousness.

FAQ — Johan Creten

Who is Johan Creten?

Johan Creten is a Belgian sculptor based in Paris whose practice includes ceramics, bronze, drawing and installation.

Why does Johan Creten work with ceramics?

He discovered clay in the 1980s, when it remained marginal within contemporary art, and saw that marginality as an open territory.

Does Johan Creten consider himself a ceramicist?

No. He explicitly resists defining his work through a single medium or technical category.

Where did Johan Creten study art?

Creten describes studying in Ghent, initially as a painter before discovering the school’s ceramics studio.

Which artists does Johan Creten mention?

He names Wim Delvoye and Jan van Imschoot as friends from his student years.

What role does beauty play in Johan Creten’s work?

For Creten, beauty is a means of carrying difficult subjects such as illness, despair and failures of communication.

Why does Johan Creten use his father’s computers?

He turns the collection into an installation exploring memory, time, technological obsolescence and loss.

How does Johan Creten address memory?

He draws a parallel between inaccessible digital memory and the vulnerability of human memory.

What does “Fried brain” mean in Johan Creten’s work?

It connects the human brain, failed machines, contemporary overload and his father’s experience of Alzheimer’s disease.

What does glaze represent for Johan Creten?

In the interview, Creten connects its organic appearance to the brain and describes his ceramics as representations of the unconscious being overtaken by glaze.

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Clément Cogitore works at the intersection of cinema and contemporary art. Yet for the French artist, these two fields are not contradictory territories. Film, video, installation, archives and found images belong to a shared investigation into narrative and the ways images produce meaning.

Throughout this conversation, one question gradually emerges: how do we distinguish reality from memory, belief or fiction? In Ferdinandea, a project centred on a volcanic island that emerged in the Mediterranean in 1831 before disappearing only months later, this question becomes at once historical, geopolitical and poetic.

From Christian Boltanski to the construction of a visual language

Cogitore recalls encountering a work by Christian Boltanski as a teenager: black-and-white photographs, small lights and an almost rudimentary arrangement. What struck him was not monumentality, but the contrast between the simplicity of the means and the complexity of the experience.

“The work evoked something very complex for me, with extremely simple means.”

This encounter already contains an essential aspect of Cogitore’s understanding of art. Complexity does not necessarily require an accumulation of signs. It can emerge through their combination, their silences and the relationships between them.

The same principle informs his movement between cinema and exhibitions. He compares the two to different literary forms: “It is a little like a writer moving from the novel to poetry without, for all that, leaving the field of literature.”

Clément Cogitore and editing as a producer of meaning

Editing is central to Cogitore’s practice, not simply as a cinematic technique but as a way of thinking.

“It is often not the image itself that interests me, but the relationship that images construct between themselves.”

An image can therefore change meaning according to the image, sound or text placed beside it. This helps explain Cogitore’s attraction to archives and pre-existing images. The challenge is not necessarily to manufacture a new visual object, but to establish a relationship between existing elements that did not previously exist.

His work consequently gives particular importance to friction, gaps and uncertainty. An artwork does not simply show something; it constructs a relationship that the viewer must negotiate.

Memory, documentary and fiction

For Cogitore, the logic of editing extends far beyond cinema. It describes something fundamental about memory itself.

“Our memory is a machine for fictionalising.”

We cannot retain everything. Certain events are selected, others disappear, and connections are reconstructed between fragments. History attempts to contain this instability through documents and verification, yet it too remains dependent on selection.

Cogitore compares this process to cinematic framing: showing one thing necessarily means excluding another.

“Even framing a situation means deciding what will be inside the frame and deciding what will not.”

The permeable boundary between documentary and fiction therefore becomes one of the key territories of his work.

Ferdinandea: an island between Sicily and Tunisia

The Ferdinandea project began with a few lines Cogitore discovered in a book in a second-hand bookshop in Palermo. They described the emergence in 1831 of the summit of the underwater volcano Empedocles in the Strait of Sicily.

For several months, an island existed between Sicily and Tunisia. Nearby populations sometimes interpreted the phenomenon as divine punishment or the appearance of a monster. Scientists, sailors and artists travelled to observe it. European powers soon followed.

Britain, the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies and France rapidly understood the strategic significance of a new territory in the Mediterranean and attempted to claim it.

For Cogitore, the apparent absurdity of these competing gestures conceals something much more serious:


“Behind this slightly absurd game, there are real geopolitical stakes.”

A vanished territory that remains politically active

Ferdinandea eventually disappeared beneath the waves, but its location retained its strategic importance. Cogitore points to the multiple flows that still intersect in this part of the Mediterranean between east and west, north and south.

The project therefore reaches beyond a nineteenth-century episode. It connects colonial history to a present shaped by borders, circulation, resources and migration.

The question becomes more fundamental:

“What is a landscape that appears and disappears?”

Even submerged, the island continues to exist through maps, archives, memories and the competing claims once made upon it. The physical landscape disappears; the political and imaginary landscape remains.

Incertitude: when contradictory narratives coexist

The central film in the project, Incertitude, initially resembles a historical documentary before gradually moving towards speculative fiction and imagining the island’s possible re-emergence.

Yet this distinction is deliberately unstable. Historical documents already contain superstition, error, propaganda and deliberate falsehood.

Cogitore therefore refuses to systematically rank the different voices. Verified events coexist with mistaken perceptions and collective beliefs. All nonetheless respond to the same phenomenon.

This approach is encapsulated in his definition of belief:

“Belief itself is a very, very broad spectrum that goes from lies all the way to poetry.”

From conflict to narrative

Ferdinandea is also a history of rivalry: competing powers, competing names and competing versions of the same territory.

For Cogitore, this structure extends far beyond the island itself. Conflict is one of the fundamental mechanisms of narrative. As soon as individuals or worldviews come into opposition, a story emerges through confrontation, negotiation or attempted resolution.

“That is what makes the DNA of a narrative profoundly political.”

Through Ferdinandea, Clément Cogitore is therefore not simply recounting the history of a vanished island. He examines the moment when reality becomes a narrative — then several competing narratives — and how those narratives, in turn, transform our perception of reality.

FAQ — Clément Cogitore

Who is Clément Cogitore?

Clément Cogitore is a French artist and filmmaker whose practice moves between cinema, video and contemporary art.

What themes does Clément Cogitore explore?

Clément Cogitore examines memory, images, narrative, belief, conflict and the shifting boundary between documentary and fiction.

What is Ferdinandea in Clément Cogitore’s work?

For Clément Cogitore, Ferdinandea is simultaneously a historical event, a geopolitical territory and a framework through which narratives can be examined.

Why is editing important to Clément Cogitore?

Clément Cogitore argues that meaning often emerges from relationships between images rather than from isolated images.

How does Clément Cogitore relate cinema to contemporary art?

Clément Cogitore treats them as distinct narrative forms that nevertheless belong to the same broader language of moving images.

What role does memory play in Clément Cogitore’s work?

For Clément Cogitore, memory necessarily selects and reorganises experience, introducing an element of reconstruction.

Why does Clément Cogitore connect documentary and fiction?

Clément Cogitore sees the boundary between them as permeable because framing and selection always involve construction.

What does belief mean for Clément Cogitore?

Clément Cogitore describes belief as a broad spectrum extending from deliberate falsehood to poetic imagination.

Why is the Mediterranean important to Clément Cogitore’s Ferdinandea?

The Mediterranean becomes a space where history, territory, circulation, political rivalry and collective imagination intersect.

What role does conflict play for Clément Cogitore?

Clément Cogitore understands antagonism as one of the fundamental engines of narrative and therefore as inherently political.

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La peinture de Christine Safa se déploie dans un espace intermédiaire, entre territoires vécus et territoires transmis. Artiste franco-libanaise, elle construit une œuvre où l’expérience personnelle se mêle à une mémoire héritée, façonnant un langage pictural fait de paysages mentaux, d’horizons mouvants et de formes architecturales épurées.

Une enfance entre France et Liban

Grandir entre la France et le Liban a inscrit très tôt la coexistence du paisible et du tragique au cœur de sa sensibilité. L’artiste évoque une enfance rythmée par les allers-retours, les étés passés au Liban, la douceur familiale, mais aussi l’omniprésence d’une violence politique dont elle n’a pas été actrice directe. « J’ai sûrement absorbé le chagrin de ma famille », confie-t-elle, décrivant une transmission émotionnelle silencieuse, diffuse, mais profondément structurante.

L’assignation au récit de la guerre

À l’entrée en école d’art, cette mémoire héritée devient un sujet presque attendu. En classe préparatoire puis aux Beaux-Arts de Paris, Christine Safa développe une iconographie explicitement liée à la guerre : enfants armés, images violentes, collages sur journaux, broderies. Cette période, marquée par une grande intensité émotionnelle, est cependant rapidement interrogée. « On m’a dit : tu n’es pas journaliste », se souvient-elle, soulignant la nécessité de déplacer son rapport au réel et à la représentation.

La découverte d’un regard poétique

La rencontre avec l’œuvre d’Etel Adnan agit alors comme une bascule. Elle découvre qu’un regard doux, poétique, non spectaculaire, peut porter une vérité tout aussi forte. « Un regard doux et poétique était suffisant », explique-t-elle. Cette révélation lui permet de s’autoriser une autre approche du Liban, non plus uniquement marquée par la violence, mais par la sensation, la lumière, le temps et la couleur.

Peindre comme un rituel

Chez Christine Safa, la peinture relève d’un geste profondément incarné. Nourrie par l’iconographie chrétienne, les fresques italiennes et la matière des murs anciens, elle affirme : « La peinture est un rituel. » L’usage de pigments bruts, de poudres de marbre, de surfaces préparées comme des murs confère à ses œuvres une dimension presque architecturale. La toile devient un lieu de dépôt du temps, un espace où la matière conserve la mémoire du geste.

Paysages intérieurs et formes essentielles

Maisons, arbres, montagnes, horizons traversent son œuvre de manière récurrente. Ces motifs ne relèvent pas de l’observation directe : « Je préfère peindre après coup. » La peinture naît de la mémoire, de la rémanence, de ce qui persiste après l’expérience. Les horizons rappellent ceux du littoral libanais, les maisons se confondent parfois avec des montagnes, les arbres projettent leurs ombres sur des façades silencieuses.

Retrouver la joie de peindre

Progressivement, la peinture de Christine Safa s’éloigne du récit pour affirmer une présence plus ouverte, plus joyeuse. « Rien de pire que de s’ennuyer de peindre », affirme-t-elle. Son travail actuel cherche à préserver une forme de fulgurance, à accepter l’inachevé, à laisser la couleur agir librement. Entre mélancolie et joie retrouvée, sa peinture devient un espace de réconciliation, où la mémoire n’est plus un poids mais une source.

FAQ

  1. Qui est Christine Safa ? Artiste peintre franco-libanaise.
  2. Ses thèmes principaux ? Mémoire et paysage.
  3. Influence majeure ? Etel Adnan.
  4. Peint-elle d’après photo ? Non.
  5. Place du Liban ? Centrale.
  6. Place de l’Italie ? Fondatrice.
  7. Style ? Entre figuration et abstraction.
  8. Matériaux ? Pigments, huile, aquarelle.
  9. Où expose-t-elle ? Galeries internationales.
  10. Recherche actuelle ? La joie du geste.

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A Vocation Born in Mediterranean Light

Originally from El Prat, near Barcelona, Cristina BanBan has emerged as one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary painting. Her relationship with art began early and instinctively. Her parents enrolled her in art school at the age of five — a defining gesture.

“I always knew I wanted to do something with drawing and painting,” she recalls.

Since childhood, a sketchbook and pencils have never left her side. This intimate connection to drawing is rooted in a traditional education centered on observing reality. Very early, she learned to copy, to understand light, to master color, watercolor, and acrylics, and eventually to draw from life. This rigorous discipline forged both her vision and her precision.

Between Popular Culture and Pictorial Heritage

Cristina BanBan’s early influences reflect the hybridity of her generation. While Picasso was her first artistic shock — “Picasso was my first influence” — she also acknowledges the profound impact of popular visual culture: Japanese anime series such as Dragon Ball, Sailor Moon, and Doraemon fed her teenage imagination.
This dual belonging — between high art and popular culture — still flows through her work today, where the monumentality of the body meets an almost graphic expressiveness.

From Barcelona to London: The Search for Artistic Identity

Graduating in 2010 from the University of Fine Arts of Barcelona, which she describes as “very conservative,” Cristina BanBan decided to move to London, where she lived for seven years.

“I felt very lost, and the way I spent my free time was mostly drawing,” she explains.

There, she developed — almost self-taught — a personal visual language blending sensuality, strength, and humor. From 2016 onwards, painting became her main medium of expression.

The Call of New York: A Defining Turning Point

In 2019, a residency in New York transformed her trajectory. Invited by a gallery, she discovered a new source of energy:

“I had so much fun. It was so exciting, and I felt it brought me back to life.”

The New York experience became foundational — offering her the freedom and experimentation that pushed her practice toward looser, more gestural forms.

While the female body remains central to her work, Cristina BanBan now treats it as a vessel for emotion rather than representation. Around 2022, she began to explore distortion, tension, and fragmentation. She cites Willem de Kooning, Joan Mitchell, Paula Rego, and Lucian Freud among her references, as well as Joaquín Sorolla, whose mastery of light and gesture she deeply admires.

Evolving Style: From the Body to Composition

While the female body remains central to her work, Cristina BanBan now treats it as a vessel for emotion rather than representation. Around 2022, she began to explore distortion, tension, and fragmentation. She cites Willem de Kooning, Joan Mitchell, Paula Rego, and Lucian Freud among her references, as well as Joaquín Sorolla, whose mastery of light and gesture she deeply admires.

Her creative process is grounded in drawing — “Drawing is a very calm, meditative state for me” — but her approach to painting is driven by energy and impulse. Without preparatory sketches, she advances instinctively, “breaking” canvases that fail to work and immediately starting anew.

“Lorquianas”: An Homage to Federico García Lorca

Presented at Galerie Perrotin in Paris, Lorquianas marks a major milestone in BanBan’s career. Inspired by Federico García Lorca, the celebrated Spanish poet and playwright, Cristina BanBan reinterprets his world through a series of powerful and lyrical works.

Invited to work at the Centro Federico García Lorca in Granada, she delved into the poet’s archives, drawings, and photographs. From this dialogue emerged ten large-scale paintings and several drawings intertwining symbols, architecture, and feminine figures.
The paintings evoke Lorca’s tragic heroines — Yerma, La Casa de Bernarda Alba — as well as his dreamlike characters: clowns, sailors, Pierrots.

“The meaning of the exhibition is to give life to Lorca’s legacy in a different context here in Paris,” she explains.

The Female Body as a Territory of Emotion

In Lorquianas, Cristina BanBan chose, for the first time, to dress her figures. Clothing becomes a narrative tool, a bearer of symbols. Yet painting the female body remains her central thread:

“As a woman painting women, my gaze is inevitably different.”

Her canvases convey the emotional power of the body — its vulnerability and strength — far removed from any erotic intention.
Lorquianas thus stands as a pictorial meditation on femininity, memory, and poetry. Between figuration and abstraction, between Spain and America, Cristina BanBan transforms painting into a sensitive language — a space where the body becomes metaphor and color becomes emotion.

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Laurent Proux (born 1980, Versailles) is a French contemporary painter whose work explores the dialogue between industry and nature, human labor and material poetry. Raised in Viroflay and trained at the École des Beaux-Arts de Lyon, Proux creates textured, layered compositions that examine how humanity constructs, consumes, and coexists with its environment. His recent exhibition, “The Nature Poem,” presented at Galerie Semiose in Paris (2024), reflects on the oxymoronic relationship between human creation and the natural world.

From Industrial Roots to Early Themes

Laurent Proux’s family background in industry profoundly shaped his early vision. His father began as a factory worker in Chalon-sur-Saône before becoming a business owner, instilling in him a fascination with production, labor, and material transformation. These early experiences became the foundation of his first artistic investigations.

“My family was quite tied to industry—completely tied, really—because my father started out as a factory worker in Chalon-sur-Saône. Later he had his own company, so he was a boss at the end of his life. I started working around one of the themes that has run through my painting—the working and industrial world.”

Proux’s initial paintings often depicted factories and industrial interiors, stripped of people yet filled with traces of human presence. He sought to reveal “the reverse side of the set, the backstage of how things are made,” a realm “much less clean, much less sparkling” than the polished surface of consumer goods. For him, the factory is a place where matter precedes commodity—a space for honoring those who make, build, and transform.

Through these early explorations, Laurent Proux established his core artistic vocabulary: a fascination with the unseen, the process of fabrication, and the material truth behind appearances. His paintings are physical, textured, and layered, emphasizing the act of painting as a gesture of work, echoing the manual labor they often depict.

The Reversal: Nude Bodies and Natural Spaces

As his artistic journey evolved, Proux experienced a decisive shift in subject matter—a “reversal,” as he calls it—moving from depictions of factories to representations of nude bodies immersed in natural landscapes. This transition emerged from a desire to paint what his industrial subjects had excluded: the body and nature.

“I said to myself: it’s the bodies. Nude bodies are bodies that, a priori, carry no social signs. And if the factory is a mechanical jungle, a jungle of wires, cables, steel, and plastic, what I’m not representing is nature—the pastoral universe, the forest.”

This shift did not signify a rupture but a continuation—an exploration of what lies at the other pole of human existence. The earlier mechanical spaces gave way to Edenic, dreamlike environments, where figures exist beyond social codes, surrounded by organic elements and diffuse light.

By moving from the industrial to the natural, Laurent Proux opened a new field of tension between civilization and instinct, technology and sensuality. His nature scenes retain a structural discipline reminiscent of machinery, yet they pulse with freedom, color, and movement.

Training and Artistic Influences

A graduate of the Beaux-Arts de Lyon, Proux developed his early subjects centered on the working class and realism. His goal was to reveal the hidden aspects of reality—the unseen labor and raw materials that precede the finished product.

Before entering art school, his brother Xavier Proux introduced him to literature and visual culture. Paperback covers often illustrated by paintings were his first contact with art. Among his formative influences, Gustave Moreau holds a special place. A visit to the Musée Gustave Moreau in Paris with his brother was, in his words, a revelation.

“I was completely entranced by his colors, his strange studio, and those half-collapsed paintings with almost formless bodies.”

Later, during a year at the Beaux-Arts de Paris, Proux discovered Giorgio de Chirico through his professor Alain Bonfand, who introduced him to the metaphysical dimension of painting. The sense of expectation and stillness in De Chirico’s works, particularly The Enigma of Time, profoundly marked him.

“I remember those images of De Chirico—the Enigma of Time—the reproductions of his paintings, that slightly metaphysical atmosphere, the waiting they create; they truly struck me.”

For Proux, De Chirico’s work embodies the tension between monumentality and fragility. He describes its illumination as “a faint theatrical light.” In his own practice, light becomes a director, an architect, and a choreographer, revealing rather than fixing the forms on canvas.

Light, Material, and the Lessons of Spain

Proux’s residency at the Casa de Velázquez in Madrid deepened his engagement with light. The dramatic and apocalyptic luminosity of Spanish Baroque painting—seen in artists like Ribera and Zurbarán—inspired him to use light as a narrative force. He sought to create moments where light unsettles rather than comforts, where it reveals the instability of forms and evokes spiritual transformation.

He also cites the influence of Dominique Figarella, an abstract painter and teacher at the Beaux-Arts de Paris. Figarella’s method—constructing paintings as assemblages of materials endowed with meaning—resonated with Proux’s interest in the “semiology of materials.”

“He often spoke of materials as crucibles. Like in industry—a crucible is something that holds history, something through which meaning passes.”

Another mentor, Yves Bélorgey, known for his paintings of rationalist architecture, encouraged Proux to analyze the texture and semiotic language of materials. Bélorgey’s exploration of modern urban construction echoed Proux’s fascination with the tangible and the structural.

A Turning Point: Chicago and the Human Figure

A pivotal trip to Chicago in 2019 introduced Proux to major African-American artists such as Kerry James Marshall, Jacob Lawrence, and Aaron Douglas, whose work grounded representation in social and historical context. This exposure led to a breakthrough moment of imagination: he envisioned three bodies on a couch before a tree, a scene that became his painting Intérieur South Side—a cornerstone in his rediscovery of the human form.

Laurent Proux also acknowledges Albrecht Altdorfer for his use of deformation and cosmic scope, and Gustave Courbet for his commitment to social realism and the portrayal of desire. Both remain enduring references in his practice.

“For me, Courbet is… it’s complex to explain because he’s many things. There’s the social dimension of his art that interests me—the art of the people—and, at the same time, his fascination with desire.”

The Fabrication of Reality in Painting

Proux conceives painting as a construction of reality, not its imitation. In his early works, photography served as documentation—a way to study texture, form, and process. His goal was never to reproduce the appearance of things but to find their pictorial equivalent.

“That is, not to reproduce the appearance of something but to find the gesture equivalent to that thing in painting—a pictorial gesture that expresses what the thing is, even when it is not representational.”

For example, in depicting chipboard, Proux does not paint each fragment. Instead, he applies brushstrokes that, by their rhythm, embody the energy of the material. Similarly, a blade of grass is conveyed not by shape but by movement—“the energy of the grass itself.”

In recent years, he has integrated collage techniques, assembling paper cutouts to form composite figures and scenes. These figures, often with distorted anatomies, suggest emotion rather than accuracy—sentimental or erotic architectures of the body.

“The Nature Poem”: Between Creation and the Natural World

The title of his 2024 exhibition, “The Nature Poem,” borrowed from a poem by Richard Brautigan, encapsulates Proux’s philosophical vision. The expression is an oxymoron: poem (from the Greek poema, meaning creation or fabrication) contrasts with nature, which exists independently of human intervention.

“It’s a perfect oxymoron, since poem, poema in ancient Greek, means fabrication, creation—poiesis—whereas nature is everything that exists without us, everything that doesn’t need to be made.”

The exhibition’s central painting, also titled The Nature Poem, is a large-format canvas that plays with unreal light, rich textures, and painterly gesture. Moss on a tree trunk transforms into “fish scales” or “bubble wrap,” turning the tree into “something animal.” Figures gather around a central void—a symbolic cave of mystery, embodying the unknown within nature.

The exhibition unfolds as a journey from twilight to revelation, moving from dusky, introspective scenes to lighter, more open compositions. In To the Night, figures inhabit a semi-aquatic landscape bathed in blue twilight, while the final painting portrays a serene Garden of Eden, complete with a small factory on the horizon—a reminder of humanity’s dual role as creator and destroyer.

Industry, Proux suggests, “is what allows us to inhabit nature—and what destroys it at the same time.”

Creation as Necessity

For Laurent Proux, art-making is inseparable from introspection—and from boredom.

“I think making art means accepting boredom. If you never get bored, there is no art.”

He sees boredom as the fertile ground where imagination takes root, away from distraction. The act of painting carries an emotional duality: the impatient desire to complete a work and the quiet melancholy that follows its completion.

Through this rhythm of construction, tension, and release, Laurent Proux redefines painting as both a physical craft and philosophical inquiry—a way of understanding the world through making. His art invites us to reflect on the processes of fabrication, the fragile coexistence of humanity and nature, and the enduring power of desire in artistic creation.