What drew you to ceramics? Was there a specific moment or influence that made you realise this was a medium that you wanted to express yourself through?

I initially began working with ceramics as a self-taught artist, developing my visual language and technical approach through a largely empirical process. My practice emerged from an intuitive, hands-on experimentation with the material—never with the intention of creating "art" per se. Like an alchemist, I dissected the substance through a series of improvised experiments, drawing fragmented, often inconclusive insights through trial and error. At the beginning, I was also engaged in similar explorations using glass and metal materials. But what ultimately led me to focus more deeply on clay was its mineral nature.

Clay is a malleable, non-organic material. It has a kind of plasticity that is surprisingly similar to organic matter. It was this paradox that captivated me. I began to imagine my works as mineral vessels—settings for imagined organic lifeforms. My decision to dedicate myself to ceramics also arose after years of working with various polluting materials. Ceramics, on the other hand, can re-enter the slow, geological cycle of returning to the earth without causing any environmental harm. In some cases, the process can even enrich a local ecosystem. That’s the intention behind my practice: creating sculpture as a form of ecological repair.

Where did your fascination with the natural world originate, and how has it shaped your evolution as an artist?

I grew up in a suburban neighbourhood on the outskirts of Paris, in a house situated at the edge of a forest and near vast housing complexes that had been built in the 1950s. The forest became a kind of refuge for me—a space of quiet resistance to an urban life that never truly resonated. As a teenager, I began to notice how urban planning confines nature into designated parcels: parks, woods, forests—all with clearly defined boundaries. I felt torn between a desire for cities to embrace a deeper symbiosis with the natural world and a concern for protecting non-human life from our often-destructive activity.

Two decades later, those early reflections continue to shape my artistic practice, particularly when it comes to interspecies collaborations. More broadly, the countless hours that I have spent observing natural environments and non-human beings have deeply influenced how I create. After all, how can one not be captivated by the different temporalities of living things? The gap between the fleeting existence of a gnat and the slow, deliberate growth of an oak tree is vast—yet both are intimately connected. My practice echoes this diversity in temporal rhythms: extended periods of quiet maturation are often followed by sudden bursts of emergence.

Your work combines traditional ceramic techniques with 3D printing. What drew you to this hybrid approach, and how does the dialogue between handcraft and digital fabrication shape your creations?

It was the Entomological Utopias project that first led me to explore 3D printing. My early research was inspired by natural architectures such as hives and termite mounds. I saw in this technology a way in which to create intricate internal structures within my sculptures—with a level of precision suited to the scale of small arthropods.

I have no formal training in 3D modelling and very little prior experience, but today’s tools and the wealth of shared knowledge online have enabled me to reach specific goals quickly, without any need for deep specialization. My sources of inspiration range widely, from 19th-century botanical illustrations to contemporary electron microscope imagery. I compile this visual material using digital tools like 3D modelling software and, more recently, generative AI. I then test these designs through printing, often refining them manually afterwards, when necessary.

The process remains quite rudimentary and empirical—but that’s precisely what makes it accessible. I draw on a collective iconography, composed of familiar architectural and biological forms. Through the Entomological Sculptures, 3D printing has become integrated into my creative process. It’s now leading me toward other proposals that take advantage of this technique’s specific possibilities, while still being combined with more traditional craft methods.

Overall, I view new technologies not as a break from tradition, but as a natural extension of it.

The concept of 'dwelling' is central to British anthropologist Tim Ingold's writings, suggesting a continuous engagement with one's surroundings. How does this idea manifest in your studio practice and the environments you create for your work?

Tim Ingold is one of the thinkers who has most deeply influenced my work. His concept of dwelling is grounded in the idea that beings—both human and non-human—are not passive spectators of their environment, but are actively engaged with it through their everyday activities. For Ingold, to dwell in the world means to be immersed in a constant flow of experiences, interactions, and transformations, a perspective that permeates both my artistic practice and my daily life.

My studio is located in a tiers lieu (“third place”)—a formerly abandoned building that my collective of artists and artisans has reclaimed after 20 years of disuse. Here, we’ve had the opportunity to experiment with self-management and horizontal forms of governance—political experiences that have profoundly shaped my understanding of creation.

I aspire to help build a world that can contain many worlds—not by forcing difference to conform to a whole, but by weaving the whole from difference itself. This approach leads me to consider my environment and all its inhabitants—human and non-human—with respect and attention. I believe that by observing non-human beings—how they create and sustain their own worlds—we might begin to reimagine the ways in which we inhabit, or co-inhabit, ours.