A THOUSAND YEARS UNDER THE EARTH

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All my projects are incomplete.

It doesn't mean that they're not finished, even if I wish I've got more time at every step of their fabrication. It's more that they're incomplete by nature. I don't have the ambition to create entire worlds or to tell compelling stories. There's no cohesiveness in them, except maybe the fact that each image is created in a short amount of time from each other. It's only after that I can see the link, the correspondence between them.

For me, creating is like searching to see something behind a frosted glass. I'm slowly polishing a little spot, removing layers until I can have a glimpse of the other side. It could be extraordinary, it could be mundane, but it's always unexpected. I will never get the full picture of what's going on in this other world, I will never understand who the protagonists are, or what they're doing. I try to uncover the surface as much and as clearer as I can before they fade away. It's a course against time that I will lose again and again, even if there's small victories.

A Thousand Years Under The Earth is not a cohesive project, but each picture came from the same place. There are angry heads floating in the air, or resting quietly on a table. There's a woman exhausted on a horse, lost in a place where the sun has never shine. There are circles and spheres everywhere. Fragments of fragments, shards of a civilization that never existed. I wish I could tell you the whole story, but it's not my role. I'm only here to polish the surface so you can have a look.

I think that you should tell me what is happening here.