If there is one thing I am looking for without knowing where to find it, it is the only truth that counts: the one that we owe to ourselves. My work is about our human condition, our questions and the courage to face them. It seemed to me no other possible path than that of sincerity in the first degree, it was necessary to be essential, obvious, and my pieces are stripped to the point of translating a hard existential truth. I leave only what is necessary to the question i ask. But if the substance is heavy, the form is light, raw and straightforward. So if life takes away the superficial to appear crude and cruel to us, I remove wood chips to let the material express its truth. The errors are written there, the blows of the blade, those which shape us. I remove what is in excess until our eyes can no longer ignore the question asked. And the piece is over. To my surprise, it then appears to me that naked truth is poetry.