Where do you come from—broadly speaking? Geographically, culturally, artistically?
Born in Vincennes, November 25, 1952. My first words could have been: “I would prefer not to.”

Do you remember what made you want to create art? Was it a sudden shift or a gradual drift?
As a child, I was drawn to painting, poetry, literature, music—creation in general. I didn’t aim to become an artist, but since the world of work held little appeal, I decided in 1976 to start making images.

Did you study anywhere, or did everything come through practice?
What matters is practice.

You worked with glass for a long time. What attracted you to that material?
Working with or on glass allowed me to move away from traditional techniques and gave painting another dimension.

“Entre les gouttes” – why that title?
All my works have titles, and they’re meant to play off the pieces. Between the drops is the path one must take.

Do you approach each piece in the series as a whole in itself, or as a variation within a system?
Everything is a whole, like the universe.

How did you respond to the imposed 30.5 × 30.5 cm format?
I took it as the rule of a game.

What keeps you creating today?
I’m not sure it’s art—especially given how overused that word is. I work to discover what I’m doing. It’s a necessity born of curiosity.

Do you think art can still surprise us?
Art can only surprise.

Were there any artists who left a mark on you early on? And who do you still look at today?
Everything creative interests me—from psychoanalysis to visual art, from music to literature.

Your work seems to reject gesture and conceptual painting. How would you describe that stance?
It’s not a stance. It just is.

Among all the pieces you’ve made, is there one you consider fundamental or emblematic of your approach?
There are works I prefer—ones I enjoy living with—but all are part of the process and have their place. That’s around a thousand paintings and objects, and more than 10,000 works on paper.

Are there artists you think are overlooked or underappreciated—ones you’d like us to discover?
Everyone should find their own preferences.

To conclude
On February 1, 1985, I wrote: “To complain is still to believe someone might listen. We often think we’ve imagined the worst, but that’s not enough. The advantage of closing your eyes is knowing they’re closed.”

And this dear Mr. Kappus, at the start of the last century, could read in a letter from R.M. Rilke:
“… Works of art are of an infinite solitude; nothing is worse than criticism when it comes to approaching them. Only love can grasp them, hold them, and be just toward them.”