A passionate figurative painter
An Architect’s Gaze, a Poet’s Stroll
The Home-Studio: An Artistic Sanctuary
Art has always been second nature to me, largely because of the environment I grew up in. The house of my childhood was both a living space and a sanctuary devoted to architecture. My father, with his training as an architect, had a unique ability to transform every corner of our home into a creative space. His office, located in a section of the living room to welcome clients more easily, was the beating heart of this artistic mosaic.
That office, seemingly ordinary, radiated a particular energy. Its almost clinical appearance—with its visitor chairs and large drafting table facing the wall—reflected a mind that was both methodical and refined. Amid the articulated lamps and various drawing tools, the space felt like an extension of my father’s mind, blending functionality with beauty.
One of my favorite pastimes was to sneak quietly into this space while my father worked. From a child’s eye level, the world of the drafting table appeared entirely different. I could closely observe the care and elegance in my father’s gestures—whether it was the precise use of a mechanical pencil or the graceful movement of a ruling pen. Every line drawn, every added detail fascinated me. These weren’t mere observations; they were precious lessons in devotion, patience, and passion for a craft.
But my secret visits weren’t driven only by curiosity. I felt a deep, irrepressible urge to touch, to feel, and maybe one day, to create. My father’s refusals to let me try his tools weren’t discouraging—they only strengthened my desire to explore the world of art on my own terms. In secret, I would retreat to my room, armed with Canson paper and pencils, trying to recreate what I had observed.
That office—my father’s workspace—became my first teacher. It was there that my journey into the world of art truly began, under the gentle and inspiring shadow of a passionate architect.
Awakening to Architecture and Space
My fascination with forms, spaces, and the connections between them finds its roots in precious childhood memories. Architecture, in all its majesty and complexity, was introduced to me in an unexpected way: a midnight mass, experienced perched on my father's shoulders.
There, amidst a dense and orderly crowd, I was overwhelmed by sensations. The majestic columns, the scent of incense, the play of light filtering through stained glass windows—every element of that vast edifice seemed to tell me a story. But what struck me most was the precise organization of the space. The congregation, perfectly aligned, all facing the choir where a ritual performance unfolded—each movement seemingly choreographed.
And yet, a sense of injustice hit me. The columns, though magnificent, blocked the view for some of the worshippers. Why couldn’t everyone have an equal view of the choir? My young and creative mind began to imagine a different kind of church: a round church, where everyone could have the same perspective on a central altar.
Back home, with the determination of a budding architect, I rushed to my room to draw my vision of a “complete church.” This graphic expression of my thoughts was more than a simple drawing—it was a tangible manifestation of my growing connection with my father's world.
Years later, I was amazed to discover that Mario Botta, a renowned architect, had designed a round church. That discovery confirmed what I had instinctively felt: that my passion for art and architecture wasn’t just a passing phase, but a true vocation—one that had been quietly guiding me all along.
The Discovery of Sculptural Art
It was a day in May, still infused with the scents of spring. My father took me to visit his friend Michel, whom he had simply described as a “sculptor.” As we approached his home, I was immediately struck by its uniqueness. Scattered materials, a house that oscillated between tradition and modernity—everything suggested we were on the threshold of an artistic world of its own.
The door opened to a little girl, Marielle, soon followed by Michel himself—the man behind the magic. His bushy beard nearly concealed his entire face, but his sparkling eyes betrayed an unquenchable passion for his art. He led us into his studio, and the word studio barely seemed adequate to describe the creative heart of that place.
In the center of the space lay a massive tree trunk, slowly being transformed into a human form by Michel’s skilled hands. Each chisel stroke revealed more of the figure emerging from the wood. Colored light filtered through stained-glass windows, illuminating the room, while the mingled scents of wood and varnish filled the air. Everywhere I looked, I discovered paintings, sketches, and artworks that spoke of Michel’s passion and determination.
As the day drew to a close, I had the chance to meet Michel’s wife. In an instant, I realized that the figure emerging from the trunk was a representation of her. That revelation showed me the depth of emotion and feeling that art could capture.
On the way home, as the first stars appeared in the sky, my father explained that Michel was not only a sculptor, but also a painter and stained-glass artist. That visit opened my eyes to the endless possibilities of artistic expression. From that moment on, I knew my path would inevitably be linked to creativity—even if I couldn’t yet see exactly what shape it would take.
The World of Art Within Reach
In Michel’s studio, every corner seemed to overflow with creativity. The stained-glass windows, with their shifting hues and intricate patterns, were just as captivating as his sculptures. Powerful beams of light filtered through them, casting a kaleidoscope of colors onto the walls adorned with sketches and paintings.
Many of the drawings scattered around the studio reminded me of my father’s. The lines, the shapes, the shades… All of it spoke of raw talent, pure artistic vision, and an unwavering devotion to art. As I gazed at those sketches, I was overcome by a feeling of familiarity—an invisible thread connecting Michel’s artistry with the precise drawings of my father.
The air was saturated with scents evoking both nature and creation. The fragrance of freshly cut wood mingled with the smell of varnish, forming an intoxicating blend that transported me into a world where raw material came to life in the hands of the artist.
I still remember the wonder I felt watching Michel at work. His gestures, precise and methodical, transformed an ordinary tree trunk into a majestic piece of art. Everything seemed so fluid, so natural. I stood there, speechless, absorbed by the magic of transformation—from raw wood to a finished work of art.
And then, there was her—Michel’s wife, his muse. The moment I saw her, I understood. The tree trunk, slowly but surely taking on human form, was a representation of her. It was a revelation—a tangible expression of the deep love and admiration Michel felt for her. A love so powerful, it could be carved into wood.
That day, I didn’t just discover the studio of a gifted artist. I witnessed the emotional impact that art can carry. It was a day that deepened my determination to follow an artistic path.
The Path Toward Art
On the way home, every turn in the road, every passing landscape seemed imbued with the artistic aura of Michel. My father's words, revealing to me the true breadth of Michel's talent and skill, echoed in my mind. Painter, stained-glass artist, sculptor—Michel embodied the artistic polymath, a master of multiple disciplines.
I was struck by how an artist could master so many forms of expression. Sculpture—an art of dimension, texture, and form—demanded a three-dimensional vision and manual precision. Stained glass, playing with light and color, required a deep understanding of transparency and illumination. Painting, with its subtleties and interpretations, was a window into the artist’s soul. And Michel seemed to navigate all of these effortlessly.
The encounter with Michel and the discovery of his world solidified my resolve. My future had become clear: I would be an artist. Not exactly like Michel, nor like my father, but in my own way—with my own vision of the world and my own means of expression.
The landscape rushing past the window now looked different. As if I were seeing it for the first time through the eyes of an artist. Shadows danced across the fields, trees swayed in the breeze, and the sky was painted with the soft hues of twilight. I was already imagining how I might capture those moments, those sensations—on canvas, or through some other medium.
Sensing my emotion and renewed determination, my father began to speak of his own youth—his dreams, his aspirations, and how he had chosen his own path. His words, filled with wisdom and experience, became a guide for my own uncertain but promising future.
By the end of that memorable day, I had not only deepened my passion for art, but also gained a new perspective on life, on creativity, and on the way the two are inextricably intertwined. I knew the road ahead would hold many challenges, but I felt ready to face them—armed with a love for art and inspired by the artists who had come before me.
