(When I paint I don't think. Saying things is very difficult for me. I wrote this text with suspicion but I have to throw a bottle into the sea.)

Born October 13, 1968 in Issy Les Moulineaux (Hauts de Seine). Self-taught.

I had been painting for 20 years without showing anything. To anyone. Sinking.
And to break on all sides. As much as it was possible.
Filled with this terrible hatred towards what I should have loved.
Not to accept consolation.
And to continue. Without knowing where to go.
Find something to snuggle up in. To tear out. In the greatest secrecy.

In June 2005, I was shown my work for the first time, in a gallery in Nantes chosen at random from the alphabetical order of the telephone directory: he offered me to exhibit my work. And after that I met other people who supported me.

I started by drawing my grandfather Cesar Angel Fernandez on his deathbed. I had other strong experiences where the drawing was linked to secrecy, madness and death.

I don't paint every day because it tires me out too much.
When I paint, I put pressure on myself as if it were my last. I continue, until it floats and I let go of control. I bet everything on the moment of loss of consciousness. It is regressing. It is both violating oneself and being in a free space where there can also be gentleness. Giving oneself the right to go into the zone of life and death instincts. By a very primitive wandering. To cover the same used papers endlessly until they are marked by a kind of impregnation or material projection of what constitutes me. Let the painting do its thing. The latent image that presents itself. Let yourself be troubled. Until it fills the eye even if you don't know why.
The only thing you know is that something is happening, that this apparition attracts you and worries you. It is a fascination.

Afterwards you look at this painting and you see too many things in it.
You see that you put things in there that you should have kept hidden. That you took the risk of opening up and letting express what insists, what exceeds us. The nagging oddities, what is shameful, too fragile, too bestial, too this or that. What has been stifled.
This is transgression. That you have not simplified its force of anxiety, its ambiguities.
It is reordering the original disorders but it is also a decoy. Something to which we cling in order to hold on for the moment.
So you don't show anything.

And then later you realize that it's not just you who's involved in this affair.
That this painting, so personal and intimate, touches the body, the archaic and thus they are universal, common therefore.
That there are things that cannot be avoided and that leave their mark: the mother, the father, death, pleasure, violence, melancholy.
The omnipresent ambiguity of desire. The contradictions of human nature. The one whose whims often lead us to the inhuman. That the execrable that is unbearable to us is in us. Like tenderness.
And other things.
That we all have our little faults. Human greatness and misery.

So you think that while at the beginning it was a very personal movement of banishment, of destruction, it has become a way for me to share with others, to feel part of the human community. And that my painting even connects other humans together.

It makes you want to keep struggling.