To speak about my painting…
It is like asking a goldfish why he swims.
He swims simply because he does not know how to do anything else. We can marvel at the spectacle or find it a sad triviality.
The fish does not care. The only thing he asks is that no one comes to remove him from the water.

This is not a painter…*

When my painter’s ego dons an extra large suit, I think of all those women, in pancake make-up, who walk the pavements and streets of this planet’s greatest cities.  They sell their bodies for a few euros – for an hour or two, for an evening, for a whole night – to men who can afford their most perverse fantasies.  That’s when I tell myself I do “almost” the same job as these sad creatures.  I sell a little of my soul to those same men, a small canvas or even a large one which will adorn their interiors and which they will proudly show their friends.  Of course, the difference between these women and me is that they sell themselves for money.
“Right, because you don’t do it for money!” whispers Jiminy Cricket, Pinocchio’s good conscience currently unemployed since his last cinema appearance…
Ok, of course I do it for money too, but pleasure is the main reason that gets me out of bed every morning and fills me with this incurable desire to paint. Pleasure that these sad women have erased from their memory just for their clients’ pleasure.
As long as my heart is fuelled this way and money is not my only goal, I will not feel a bastard, just an unpretentious painter. Not an artist, but a ‘bourgeois bohème’ painter happy to make a living from his passion, happy…
But is an artist a happy man? At the end of the day, who gives a damn about a happy artist? Good for him! Good for me, but how does happiness advance Art? How does my work revolutionise contemporary art?

For me, artists are in prison, in psychiatric wings, unhappily committing suicide. They are beings on the margins, suffering at their very core, hearts shredding at every beat. Hearts filled with rage and anger, beating themselves up every day in order to try and find out what on earth they are here for.  They spew out their hatred, as if they are on a bender (in writing, in the lyrics of a song, violently dirtying blank canvasses, etc…) never finding answers to all their questions. Some will kill themselves as the ultimate solution to their inescapable, unbearable malaise. It is neither courage nor cowardice, just distress.  An artist is a rebel without concessions, pure to the core, to the death, that’s how they exist in my subconscious.  They don’t give a damn about rules and all ready-made thoughts, don’t care about morals and all the second-hand principles that are drummed into us from earliest childhood.  An artist should lead us to reflect on what we are, what we do, what we will become and what we will leave behind after our brief passage in this so very complex and complicated world.  Of course I am like you – I hate the war and injustice for which man is responsible with all my guts, I despise all forms of intolerance, including those inherent in all religions and political ideals.  Stupidity and hatred.  But communicating these messages through my painting is like using a gun loaded with blanks, with my arse comfortably sat on my barstool in front of my 2000 euro easel. Without the anguish of not being able to pay for my materials or the studio rent, encouraged by my banker confident in my financial credibility and the Porsche safely parked in my private space to avoid it being scratched…That is a sham, not courage. There are many imposters on this bloody planet and of course they’re not just painters. So yes, I am not an artist, I am just a painter who is happy to get up in the mornings to go to my studio and take pleasure in joyfully daubing on too white canvasses, bought without credit, and also extremely lucky to live this passion.  Not an artist of course, but not an imposter either…

Yes, I am not an artist and I’m not going to talk to you about “Art” either.  To talk to you about “Art” is like speaking of “love” in a brothel, even though the girls are beautiful.

A goldfish is really too stupid, I agree. But there are nevertheless mammals descended from “Entelognathus” whose evolution took thousands of years and are even more stupid.

*Freely inspired by a work of René Magritte.
The paintings presented on my site are all sold. Moreover, out of loyalty to my galleries, I do not sell any paintings directly.