I create universes that question the future — rich and complex imaginary worlds, designed to host multiple stories.
I don't master any particular medium, so I naturally opened my works to collaboration.
Artists, authors, creators take hold of these universes, alone or alongside me, to imagine projects born from or inspired by this narrative ecosystem.
On my side, I continue to produce my own works, born from or inspired by these worlds I shape.
I make my fictional universes cross into the real world. I use their rules, narratives, and symbols to transform objects from life — past or present — into incarnated fragments of these imaginary worlds. Fiction doesn't remain trapped in narrative: it anchors itself in matter, in the everyday, in real objects that become receptacles of another world. It's a way to make the imaginary exist in reality, to make it tangible, inhabitable, alive.
My approach also operates within a conceptual logic, where intention can precede — or even replace — realization. Some works don't need to physically exist to live: what matters is the proposition, the idea that circulates, the gaze it activates. This approach aligns with my way of bringing my creations back to life through new forms, sometimes ephemeral, sometimes invisible, but always carrying meaning. Each gesture, even minimal, can become a reincarnation. A trace is enough to activate the imagination.
It's difficult to dedicate so much time, energy, and resources to shaping entire universes only for them to live within the walls of my imagination — in my notebooks, my phone notes, or in unanswered emails. So I attempt to bring my already-created works back to life differently, again and again, transforming them into raw material for new forms. Each reincarnation is an attempt at immortality. Perhaps one day, one of them will find an echo.
My work also explores the boundaries between intention and execution, between human and system. Through self-imposed protocols, I question the moment when the artist becomes a medium, when the gesture empties itself of intention to become pure generation. Can a human function like an algorithm? Can we distinguish a conscious output from a mechanical one? This voluntary dissolution of artistic identity resonates with my explorations of autonomy and direction in creation.
The questions I explore:
1. Does a work need to be realized to exist?
2. Where are the boundaries between real and fiction, between human and system, between author and executor?
3. How to make survive what hasn't yet taken form or what has already disappeared?
2. Where are the boundaries between real and fiction, between human and system, between author and executor?
3. How to make survive what hasn't yet taken form or what has already disappeared?
Certificate - Instruction Manual
My works aren't always meant to be realized. Some exist primarily as ideas, narratives, protocols, or narrative fragments born from my fictional universes. For each work, I produce a certificate titled instruction manual (provisional) — a singular form of conceptual authentication. It gathers the description of the work, its conditions of realization or display, as well as, if necessary, documentary elements that accompany it: photographs, videos, prototypes, or material archives. This instruction manual is not a simple certificate: it constitutes the work itself in its most essential form. It can be realized or not by its acquirer. Whether it remains potential or takes form, it already engages a fiction, a thought, a projection.