The artist is not seeking physical likeness: he builds his identity through matter, colour and assemblage. The face becomes less the representation of an individual than that of an inner state. The overlapping of the two faces can evoke the different layers of identity: the face we show and the one we hide, appearance and interiority, the conscious and the unconscious.

The work does not try to answer the question ‘What do I look like?’ but a deeper one: ‘What lies behind the image I give of myself?’ It presents identity as a complex construction, made of successive layers, contradictions, wounds and memory. Knowing oneself requires digging into the matter.

‘Shroud’ appears as an almost totemic figure whose fabric covers the body while leaving the face visible, like a last trace of identity in the face of disappearance. It no longer necessarily depicts an individual, but a symbolic representation of humankind confronted with its own finitude.

The work can thus be read as a reflection on death, but also on what remains after it. The body disappears, matter decays, yet something of the being still resists erasure.

The human figures are confronted with structures that seek to frame, direct or dominate them. The work invites a reflection on the refusal of any absolute authority, whether spiritual, political or social.

It does not merely represent revolt: above all, it evokes the will to build one’s own existence outside imposed frameworks. To be free then means stepping outside the frame, refusing established hierarchies, and becoming one’s own master.

The character does not try to steal the sun in its entirety: he takes a part of it and makes it his own. The sun then becomes the symbol of a natural wealth that mankind treats as available, exploitable and divisible, even though it is essential to our existence.

A paradox appears: the thief rests precisely on what he strips away. His balance and his survival depend on this very source, which he progressively fragments to satisfy his desire for possession.

The work thus becomes a metaphor for our contradictory relationship with the earth: we draw from what keeps us alive, at the risk of gradually destroying what sustains us.

At the heart of darkness, something still remains: an emotion, a consciousness, a possibility of rebirth. It is the mirror of the human soul as it passes through its darkest periods before union with the divine.

Revealing a profound inner crisis, a feeling of emptiness or desolation, this experience cuts the individual off from all meaning and acts as a passage toward transformation or awakening.

‘Self-Destruction’ depicts a human face in the act of drinking, made entirely of waste and fragments of discarded material. The bottle raised to the mouth turns a vital, everyday gesture into a disturbing image: the man appears to absorb what he himself produced and threw away.

By polluting his environment, the human being ends up symbolically ingesting his own pollution. What he discards in nature comes back to him, notably through water and the food chain. Waste is then no longer external to mankind: it enters the body and becomes part of the self.

The work thus places humanity before a paradox: by contaminating what allows it to live, it becomes the very architect of its own destruction.

The hybrid figure, half human, half object, directly questions the condition of contemporary man. Its appearance — at once primitive, mechanical and almost robotic — creates a paradox: modern man, despite his technological progress, here seems recomposed from the remnants of his own civilisation.

The repurposed objects lose their original function to form a new body, as if the individual ended up merging with what he manufactures, consumes and discards.

At once playful and unsettling, the work ultimately raises a question about our identity: what remains of man when the objects he creates, uses and abandons end up becoming his own portrait?

‘Umbilical’ questions our relationship of dependence on the artificial systems we have created. Contemporary humans seem connected to machines by a vital link, like a child to its mother: what was originally meant to serve us gradually becomes what we can no longer detach ourselves from.

The work thus maintains a tension between autonomy and dependence, between birth and confinement. An essential question then arises: are we still masters of our machines, or have we become dependent on the systems that power them?

‘Still Life’ subverts one of the oldest genres in the history of art. The objects traditionally depicted are replaced by deformed plastic containers, cut up and nested inside one another. The expression in the title then takes on a literal meaning: what is shown is no longer a representation of nature, but the artificial residue our society leaves it with — a lifeless yet almost indestructible object.

The work ultimately offers a reflection on our consumer society and the lasting imprint it leaves behind. The traditional still life reminded mankind that all life is destined to disappear. Here, the paradox is reversed: nature disappears, while our waste remains.

The work introduces a tension between confinement and freedom. Yet the cage is not closed: it appears permeable, vulnerable, as if the confinement it symbolises were more mental or existential than material. An ambiguity then appears: the cage protects as much as it imprisons. It offers security and sustenance, but in exchange for a renunciation of outside space. The work thus questions the cages we build for ourselves: habits, fears, comfort, dependencies or social constraints.

Contemplating it becomes an invitation to meditation, and perhaps to escaping our own cage.