STATEMENT OF WORK

It all begins with what we notice in a café, on the subway, or sitting on a bench:
couples embracing, startled passersby, an accident, an argument. Then there’s what unfolds between them—the unseen. This unseen is made up of emotions that move through bodies, part of a shared rhythm. It’s this inner noise, as I call it, that sets my painting in motion. I’m more drawn to the feeling of a moment than to its image. When I paint, I’m not trying to capture how something looks, but how it feels.

None of my works come from photographs or sketches. They grow from memory—what’s left of a moment: its disorder, its tenderness, its subtlety, its emotional range. What drives me to paint is the need to express fleeting, intangible feelings—emotions tied to a moment that has already passed. People are shaped throughout their lives by this constant current. For me, painting is a way to make sense of that motion.

On the canvas, elements often seem off-balance—sometimes out of scale, always rhythmic.
They appear like fragments of life, each holding a distinct, unrepeatable instant. I often begin a painting full of raw sensations, which I gradually pare back until what remains is the core of the story. If the shapes suggest bits of a narrative, it’s color that gives them voice.

My figures, in contrast, remain silent. My work quiets the noise of the world, leaving only what is implied—brief, wordless stories. They don’t speak; they pass by each other—separate, yet grounded. Their expressions seem calm and far-off, as if they’re watching us live just as we watch them exist—like still, constant presences. They hold within them the moments I’ve let go. They carry my memories, and what I’ve chosen to lose.

When I start a painting, it always feels as if I’ve forgotten everything. The work ahead feels unfamiliar. I slowly connect with it through a quiet exchange of body, movement, and gaze. To me, there is no single truth in a painting—only the spark of intuition that brings it to life. I follow that spark, even if I never quite catch it. It’s shaped by memory and experience, and it shows itself in the simplicity of the body. That elusive simplicity is where the mystery of the work lies.

I believe every artwork must hold some darkness, something hidden. That’s what sets it apart from a mere image. An image can be read. A true work of art resists explanation. To paint, you have to live first. You have to embrace the uncertainty and strangeness of life, and step into the unknown—with openness and vulnerability. You have to accept that you’ll never fully understand, and that the only real answer lies in the body’s movement, the gesture, and the gaze.

Florence Laprat