"The window offered me the ocean as a view: the landscape was still clear, unurbanized. The quills yellowed by summer, the brown pebbles on the black rocks had settled, windswept filaos and the ocean merged with the sky . At dusk, the ocean became iridescent like a silver lake and sometimes, at night, the stars came out of their galaxy. Perhaps it was this window into a living ocean that helped me to live and that I paint. I know now that this work reminds me of our hut of misery, of madness, of exclusion, of crowding, of arguments, of screams, of running away, of curses, of fortnight ends with nothing... It is not a trauma that we have lived through, but a series. I now understand painting better. It helps me to express my unconscious, it is a kind of reminiscence materialized by images. Recently, I saw the tin hut of my childhood, the window that opens every day on the Indian Ocean. That window made of a frame of fir wood, that hut with its rough Sumatran framework and exposed grey sheets and those shutters painted in ultramarine blue. There was the window and in the background the ocean, if I moved away a little I could only see the moving ocean in the distance like the back of a huge snake."
