Claude CHAMPY

No need for a strong introduction for this singular artist whose dazzling work looks more and more like a national monument! I don’t know if he recognizes it, but his permanent risk-taking combined with his exposure that borders on the limits of intimacy gives his work a freedom and a strength like no other. That he claims to be a potter confirms above all a state of mind, an insistence that his art, to be convincing, must be anchored in the ability to make, but his creations, even the bowls, no longer have much thing in common with most pots. Monumental or more domestic in size, they are excrescences of the earth’s crust, cliffs, shells, enamelled meteorites bearing, like us, all the scars of their childbirth. These works stand as witnesses to plural truths: those of the artist of course, of his technical mastery, of his soul of clay; but also indisputably yours, your desire to open up to the unknown, to the power of an unleashed poetry where man and matter are one.