My work begins with walls.
Not walls as architecture, but their skin: the layers of poster paper that build up, tear and overlap over time.
Election posters, concert announcements, advertising promises, fleeting performances: so many signs destined to disappear, which the city unwittingly layers into a memory of its own. I intervene at precisely that point, where the message fades and the material begins to speak.
When I take these fragments of paper, I deliberately move away from all recognizable imagery. I remove the text, the slogan, the figure, leaving only front and back, the fiber, the altered color, the trace of time. Collage then becomes a gesture of erasure as much as revelation. What was communication becomes surface; what was information becomes landscape.
The drawings, abstract collages and three-dimensional works I make are not separate practices, but different forms this material, shaped by time, can take. Drawing is less an act of representation than one of emergence.
These abstract compositions evoke imaginary territories, unstable horizons, but also vertical, almost totemic forms. This ambiguity is not accidental. It points to an older memory: that of the wall as a place of inscription, accumulation and emergence.
Like the walls of prehistoric caves, urban walls carry successive layers of human activity. They retain traces of collective gestures, beliefs, power and desires. Where prehistoric people engraved or painted to mark their presence in the world, people today paste, cover over, announce, then forget.
By reworking the wall's layers, I do not represent the world: I work with what it has deposited. Poster paper becomes a contemporary rock, friable and industrial, which I take, assemble and transform. Collage becomes a reverse excavation: instead of searching for meaning, I suspend it.
This material is not merely waste, even though it is destined to disappear from the outset; it is also the very presence of that erasure. Worn by rain, sun, glue and successive layers, the paper retains traces of its exposure to the world. Each fragment already holds a memory of erasures, deposits and what survives. By bringing these fragments together again, I am not trying to purify or rescue them, but to reveal the density of time they contain.
Here, color is not chosen: it is found, inherited, weathered by time. Nothing is illustrated; everything arises from material already charged with history.
And so my works do not seek to impose a reading, but to open up a presence. They stand at the threshold between landscape and sign, collective memory and abstraction, remnant and emergence.
What I offer is not nostalgia for the past, but attention to what remains. An attempt to read our time not through its spectacular images, but through what it leaves behind. There, the wall still speaks—if we know how to listen.