Tell us a little bit about yourself and what you do.
I’m an artist, born in 1997 in Lyon, France. I studied at the National School of Fine Arts there. In 2018, while still a student, I began working in Athens with artists Maria Papadimitriou and Eleonora Meoni on projects such as Souzy Trosand Alternative School. Since then, I’ve continued working between France and Greece, and I’m currently based between Paris and Athens.
I don’t have a favorite medium — I like to say that I work with images, and I shape forms through them.
Are there any influences that are core to your work?
Music, poetry, urban landscapes, bedrooms, vulnerability, dreams, teenagehood, mental health and youth.
Is there a moment you look back on as being formative to your identity as an artist?
I grew up in a family where art mattered. My parents took me to museums from a young age, which sparked my interest. In high school, I was in a specialized music class, but when it came time to choose a university, art school started to feel more aligned — music no longer felt like the right outlet.
Moving to Athens and working on DIY projects also shaped me a lot. I’d say that the year after I graduated from art school was a major turning point — it took time to let go of what I had learned and fully embrace what I really wanted to do.
How were you introduced to the mediums that you work with?
I was lucky to be in an art school where I could experiment with a wide range of mediums. After graduating, it became harder to access certain workshops or expensive materials, so I started working with what was close to me — objects I’d find during daily walks in the city, images I took or came across, chessboards turned into frames, old t-shirts, printed pictures…
What kind of imagery are you drawn to?
I’m into 90s trash teen movies, Tumblr-era internet visuals, band flyers, and old merch designs. I’m drawn to rough, DIY, sometimes dark and violent imagery — but always with sensitivity.
You recently had a solo exhibition, Like Ghosts We Remain, at Okay Space in Athens. What did you explore through that work?
The exhibition came from a poem I wrote in Athens during August:
« August, back to Athens
The streets are empty
We make way for others,
Those who like ghosts remain in the heart of the city
The sun gives them a face
Forgotten bas-reliefs with painful masks
We dare a glance that goes straight to the heart
at the corner of a street, dreams pooled on the surface
synthetic-
Like ghosts they remain
To keep us awake in the scorching torpor
A fire in the dead of night marks the entrance to another world
Where lying,
dreamers don’t know if one day they’ll awaken »
My solo show « Like Ghosts We Remain » was born from the invisible presences that haunt us, the spaces between reality and fiction where those living on the margins exist, and the heavy heat of August in Athens. Through films, photographs, and installations, I explored how we inhabit real, imagined, and forgotten worlds — and how imagination can become a refuge when reality feels unbearable.
The exhibition creates narrative spaces where the rules of the tangible world collapse, offering shelters for those who feel out of place. It celebrates imagination as a tool of resistance and transformation, opening portals into invisible territories where new selves can emerge.
You also released a bilingual poetry edition for the show. What role does writing play in your creative process?
I write a lot, almost daily, filling notebooks in a way that feels close to keeping a diary. Writing is a key part of my creative process — it allows me to translate feelings into words, and then into images that eventually take form.
My writing practice deeply nourishes my visual work; composing poems feels very much like working with a material. Both acts come from the same place of observation and reflection.
Language is an important medium for me to convey emotions — it’s flexible and malleable, something I can shape and play with to create images.
I don’t really follow a strict protocol; sometimes I write independently of my artworks, and other times, during the creation process, words simply emerge.
Some of your work references films and popular media. What draws you to reappropriating familiar imagery?
“Familiarity” is really important here. My work often echoes memories from childhood or adolescence, inviting viewers to confront their own as they encounter mine. There’s a tension between comfort and unease when we revisit the past—it inevitably anchors us to a specific moment in time. I use recognizable objects, images, or spaces—like puzzles or playgrounds, often drawn from films—and transport them into parallel worlds. By fictionalizing these elements and distorting the familiar, I create a sense of subtle disruption, a shiver, that echoes the viewer’s own inner landscapes.
What’s your current studio or workspace like? Do you have any rituals?
Right now, I’m in residence at KYAN in Athens. I love it — it’s on the second floor with a sunny patio terrace, and the other residents are great. It’s always nice to gather there.
My studios are usually quite messy, full of collected objects. I don’t have strict rituals, but I usually sit with a coffee and try to organize my ideas. I’m a pretty messy person, so I rely on making lists to avoid jumping between a thousand things at once.
To enter a creative flow, I put myself in a kind of mental loop with the help of music.
You host a show on Fade Radio and have done DJ sets. Is music part of your art practice or more of a separate creative outlet?
Music has always been essential to me. I started playing guitar at six, and studied music throughout high school.
I’ve stopped playing for a while and really miss it, so my show on Fade Radio is a way of slowly reconnecting — from curating to hopefully practicing again soon.
In the studio, I always work with playlists that match my feelings and the emotions I want to convey. Music helps me reach a meditative state.
How does your creative community now compare to earlier in your life?
I used to be surrounded mostly by musicians. Now my creative community has expanded to include all kinds of artists, and that makes more sense to me — we support each other in different but connected ways.
What’s your experience like as an artist in Athens compared to Paris?
Athens has always felt like home. Even with its complex socio-political situation, there’s a freedom I don’t find in Paris.
With my close friend and collaborator Stavros Kapetanios, we recently curated a large exhibition called Another Dandelion Fantasy, bringing together 36 artists from France and Greece, along with a full program of DJs, live music, and performances in an amazing building in Athens. It was so fulfilling — for us and the community.
Things like that are much easier to organize in Athens. Time also feels slower here, which eases my anxiety.
I do love Paris too — it’s amazing for art, with so many galleries and museums — but daily life there is tough. It’s hard to find a decent studio, and the atmosphere can be very competitive and stressful.
When needed, where do you look for inspiration? Has this changed over time?
I go for long walks, especially in Athens, and pay attention to my surroundings — old faded ads, urban structures, shop displays, the way people inhabit city space… I take a lot of pictures, and often dive through my camera roll for ideas.
Over time, I’ve trained my eyes to notice the hidden gems.
I also watch films, read, and return to art books I love. Visiting exhibitions helps refresh my mind too.
What do you collect?
That’s a good one — I’m a big collector of everything. I rarely throw things away, so I have folders full of candy wrappers, museum tickets, photos, letters… It’s like I’m archiving my daily life.
I also love flea markets — I buy objects, clothes, books… and I have more specific collections too, like Pinocchio puppets, for example.
This way of collecting and accumulating also plays a major role in my way of working. It is a kind of obsessive work with forms.
How do you manage the variety of responsibilities in your practice? How do you avoid burnout?
Honestly, I don’t manage it very well. I often take on too many projects at once and push my limits a bit too far. But I also love the adrenaline and that kind of exhaustion — it’s worth it.
I remind myself how lucky I am to do what makes me feel alive.
Still, I struggle with balance. It’s a constant wave — up and down.
Are there any new areas you’d like to explore in your work — materials, subjects, mediums?
I’d love to make more videos — less DIY, more like short films with an actual crew. It’s exciting and also a bit terrifying.
Interviewed by Luca Lotruglio.