When people look at my still lifes, they sometimes say, “It looks like a photograph.” I understand the compliment, but that is not exactly what I am aiming for.
I'm not trying to make people say, "It looks like a photo," but rather, "It looks real."
The difference is important. A photograph reproduces the appearance of objects. In my painting, I try to give them a presence: the weight of a fruit, the transparency of a glass, the gleam of a metal, the delicacy of porcelain, or the texture of a doily. I want the viewer to almost feel as if these objects genuinely occupy the space in front of them.
This illusion is not based solely on the precision of the drawing. It also comes from the colors, the values, the light, the shadows, and how the materials interact with each other. Each object must retain its own nature while contributing to the overall balance of the painting.
Photography has its technical limitations. When part of an object becomes too dark, details disappear, outlines blur, and objects seem to melt into each other. In reality, our gaze continually adapts to the light, allowing us to perceive details even in shadowy areas. Objects thus remain distinct from each other, which enhances the sense of volume and relief.
This is precisely one of my concerns as a painter: to preserve the details, materials, and boundaries of each object, even in shadow, so that people say "it looks real" rather than "it looks like a photograph."
During an exhibition held at the Foire de Paris, I witnessed a scene that perfectly summarizes this pursuit. Some visitors approached my still lifes and tried to touch the doilies. They even attempted to slide their fingers underneath, as if they could peel them off the canvas.
For me, their reaction was the greatest compliment. They were no longer wondering how the painting had been made; for a moment, they believed in the physical presence of the objects.
It is this sensation that I have pursued throughout my life as a painter: not to slavishly copy reality, nor to compete with a photograph, but to give a flat surface enough life, substance and depth to make the eye hesitate.