If our civilization were to disappear, what would remain of us? Like the frescoes of Pompeii, rediscovered centuries later, these works would be fragments of a vanished world, traces of forgotten loves, censored and erased from collective memory. They are remnants of intimacy: bodies, kisses, caresses. Love stories between men. I felt the need to create this series at a time when, across the world, we are witnessing a troubling step backwards. In many countries, LGBTQIA+ rights, which we once believed to be secured, are being challenged. The threat is no longer abstract. It is real, violent, and political. This regression does not only concern rights but the very existence of individuals and communities. I keep thinking about what is happening in Gaza, where entire communities are being targeted for erasure, removed from history.
Living in France today, I worry about the rise of the far-right party, Rassemblement National, and its potential accession to power in the upcoming presidential elections. Wherever extremists gain power, culture always ends up being one of their victims. Genocide can also be cultural.
Faced with this, I could no longer paint the way I used to. I felt the need to be more political, to express this fear, this anger, this urgency. Because yes, a society can attempt to erase people as if they had never existed. It is this fear of disappearance and regression that I try to express here.
Aesthetically, these works borrow from the style of damaged frescoes. Parts of the bodies, faces, hands, seem to have vanished, worn away by time. And yet, traces of those loves endure. You can feel them in the gestures, in the fragments. I wanted to imagine a lost world in which these fragments of love stories had been buried, forgotten, and then rediscovered.
The scenes in these paintings are taken from films that shaped me, as someone who grew up in an environment where homosexuality was never represented, neither at school nor within the family. Cinema played a major role very early in my life. It was the first art form, the first window onto the world that I encountered, long before I ever stepped foot in a museum or gallery. I still watch a lot of films today, and they continue to deeply nourish me. For me, it’s one of the most complete art forms. Through culture, through cinema, I came to understand who I was and what I was allowed to be.
Two of the paintings are reproductions of the iconic photograph The Cock (Kiss) by artist Wolfgang Tillmans. This photo has stayed with me for a long time. I first saw it as a postcard, in the apartment where I lived with my ex-partner. I later saw it in its original form at the Pompidou Center. When I moved to Paris, I bought a small reproduction. It hangs in my bathroom. I look at it all the time.
This photo holds immense power. It is a symbol of a moment of freedom, of celebration, of love in its freest form. It reminds me of another kiss, Edvard Munch’s The Kiss. That moment when you become one. In an interview, Wolfgang Tillmans explained that the work was once attacked. Someone had scratched it with a key. I want this work to remain, to endure, to reach the eyes of future generations, because it simply shows love in its purest form. I love this image deeply.
I was very intimidated by the idea of reappropriating this work, because Wolfgang Tillmans is both an artist and a person I greatly admire, especially for his commitment. But as with all the artworks and films I selected for this exhibition, the intention was above all to pay tribute to the artist, to the filmmaker. To say thank you for what they give to others and to the world.
I also chose to include a self-portrait in this series. It’s the first one I’ve ever made. I felt it was important to place myself in this moment, to ask myself who I am at this specific point in my life. In this self-portrait, I depicted myself as I am in everyday life: me, my t-shirt, my cap, my headphones, ready to take the metro to the studio and try to tell a story. To try to be something in today’s world.
These paintings exist to affirm a presence, an existence, a resistance. To remind us that what is censored always says something about what we refuse to see, and about those we try to silence. They are here to remind us that everything can disappear.
