This interview was conducted by Livia Klein.
You’re showing your work in this year’s issue of Capsules at Luxembourg Art Week. What will visitors encounter there?
Visitors will discover a section of Chagrin, an installation first presented earlier this year at sissi club (Marseille) and at the Grande Halle de La Villette (Paris). Chagrin is based on a short story I wrote, set in a fictional village of the same name, where a couple of two men is accused of causing the droughts and fires ravaging the surroundings. The installation consists of wooden sculptures—fragments of facades and houses—through whose windows one can glimpse images made from 3D models printed on canvas, then painted and varnished. These images depict different moments from the narrative.
How did the idea for this installation come together within the context of Capsules?
This is my first time taking part in Capsules and in this kind of vitrine exhibition format, and I was immediately drawn to the device. As an artist whose main medium is installation, it’s quite exciting to reconsider one’s practice through such a setup—it has something frontal, almost theatrical. I immediately thought of Chagrin because this installation was conceived as a frozen theatre set, suspended in a dramatic moment. It also places the viewer in a voyeuristic position, observing an intimate scene through a window, which naturally echoes the Capsules vitrines.
Your work often begins from written fragments or personal myths. What role does storytelling play in your process?
Storytelling occupies a central place in my practice. I often draw from tales and legends—stories that are nearly universal and often carry a moral. What interests me is to subvert those morals, to inject new meanings, and to open up a space for reflection. I like to think of it as dusting off stories deeply rooted in the collective imagination of the people connected to them. It’s a great point of entry because it allows me to speak to many people while proposing new ways of reimagining these narratives. Writing thus becomes a way to reclaim narrative spaces from which certain voices have long been excluded.
Would you say writing is a way of sketching before making, or is it an artwork in itself?
Writing is the starting point, a trigger. Usually, everything begins with the text: that’s when the first images, the first sets start to appear. From there, a constant back-and-forth unfolds between writing and making; one word calls for a form, and a sculptural gesture adds itself to the text. Writing initiates the work but also lingers within it, surfacing later as traces or as voices embedded in the final piece.
In your practice, myth and fiction seem to serve as tools for reimagining identity. What draws you to these symbolic frameworks?
I am drawn to the brevity of the tale, to the way it is read or told before falling asleep, in an intimate, suspended moment. This concision also resonates with my video works, where I aim to capture attention quickly. By rewriting these stories, I seek to reclaim myths in which I, and other marginalized communities, were either absent or cast as monstrous figures. Through this act of rewriting, I try to transform those monsters into symbols of resilience and freedom.
Is there a particular myth or story that stayed with you while working on this piece?
With Chagrin, the process was a bit different; it’s based on a short story I wrote myself, although its references come largely from cinema. Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee, 2006) was a key influence, both for the cowboy as a homoerotic figure and because it’s my first memory of seeing two men in love on screen. The cornfield setting, meanwhile, draws as much from Signs (M. Night Shyamalan, 2002) as from my own childhood memories of playing in the fields near my home, spaces that felt both magical and unsettling. The story’s ecological dimension, with its fires, comes from witnessing those same places burning every summer when I return home. Chagrin grew out of all these intertwined impressions.
Architecture and shelter appear again here, with these fractured houses and windows. What do these structures stand for in your work? Do you see them more as safe spaces or as something more unsettling?
The cabin is indeed a motif that recurs often in my work. I find it both a compelling scenographic element and a fascinating sculptural form to think through. It’s usually an intimate space—one I only reveal from the outside—and a kind of refuge for the characters in my stories. There’s always a distance between them and the viewer: even as I narrate their story, their intimacy remains intact. The refuge admits no one but them and me.
How do you think about atmosphere in your works, particularly through color, light, and surface, which all seem to play an emotional role in your installations?
Of course, the aesthetic choices in my work are always made to echo the story being told. In Un peu de plomb dans vos cœurs (2022), the pieces were silver to evoke both the illness caused by lead, saturnism, and the metallic coldness in the hearts of the executioners of the two main characters. In Òme d’aiga (2023), the black, glossy paint recalled the smoking marsh into which Tomàs, the main character, is pushed before turning monstrous. For Chagrin, the facades are dark and matte, as if burned, a reference to the narrative itself, but also a way to highlight the 3D models printed on canvas visible through the windows, shiny and weathered like dirty glass panes.
And how do digital or virtual elements, like resin or animation, contribute to that feeling?
I like to play with these glossy effects in my works, as they give the impression that the pieces come straight out of a virtual world. I also enjoy thinking of certain elements within my installations as clues, almost like in video games. You know how, in a game, there’s sometimes a wall with one stone slightly shinier than the others, a hint for the player to act? I think of some of my pieces similarly: as clues or signals, elements that guide the viewer to uncover the story or its hidden layers.
There’s also a strong queer dimension to your practice… how does that shape the stories you tell?
This queer dimension comes from the fact that the stories I tell are often infused with things that revolt or sadden me, aspects I feel the need to bring to light. These feelings often connect to my own identity. It can be frightening to expose so many fears by channeling them into one’s work, yet I’ve realized that doing so opens incredible conversations, in moments where I might have feared that my work, or even myself, would once again be marginalized.
What does it mean for you to bring a personal, intimate narrative into a public, collective setting like Capsules?
I find it super interesting, first because this project draws on many references from popular culture, filled with highly recognizable elements. They evoke both familiar rural landscapes and scenes from North American films. I also enjoy bringing the project outside the traditional spaces of contemporary art. The vitrine offers a way for anyone to encounter the work without the hesitation or fear that can come with crossing the threshold of a gallery or institution.
Finally, what do you hope viewers take with them after encountering your work?
I create immersive environments so that viewers can fully enter the narrative. It may sound a bit authoritarian, but I believe that to understand marginality, one has to confront its stories directly. I like to draw visitors into seductive spaces — almost like a theme park set or an escape game. Once immersed in the story, they find themselves in the place of my characters, facing their fears and desires.
