"I paint breaths, not images."
Célia: When we look at your canvases, we have the impression of witnessing something alive, something moving... As if the painting were breathing.
Achao: That’s exactly it. I believe that I paint breaths, not images. I’m not trying to tell a story or develop a subject, nor to illustrate anything. I simply want to open a pictorial space, to offer a visual pause where the gaze can settle. The shapes, the colors, all of that exists in a precarious balance — an arrangement that could be reconfigured at any moment. It’s a way of being in line with Heraclitus, according to whom “everything flows, nothing abides.” Nothing is ever fixed, neither in painting nor in life.
Célia: So, you don’t freeze the world, you let it... slide, in a way?
Achao: Yes, slide — or breathe. I love that word. Wouldn’t it be a pathetic illusion to want to hold onto the movement of life?
"Pantha Rhei, or the Art of Painting the Flow"
Célia: Your series Pantha Rhei embodies this vital flow. What do you seek to convey through these paintings?
Achao: Pantha Rhei was born from a need to accompany the movement of the world rather than to hold it back. I work in layers, in transparencies, somewhat like waves. The patterns emerge, dissolve, and then are reborn elsewhere. They respond to each other, composing a balanced and just whole — but one that is instantly and temporarily just. Sometimes, I feel that the representation on the canvas must emancipate itself from any voluntary act. I like to paint on free canvases, without a frame. I enjoy knowing that the paint can float a little in the air, as if it becomes a living object. We never really know the path that a thought — or even an artistic intention — might take.
"Mandalas are circles of calm."
Célia: In your Mandalas, we find a form of silence and centering. Where does this approach come from?
Achao: From the need to slow down, to put aside the tools that invade our daily lives. The mandala is a universal form: a center and a circle. For me, it is not a fixed symbol, but a centrifugal movement. I am not seeking geometric perfection; I am seeking vibration. Who could, by the way, claim to draw a true circle freehand? The mandala is a mirror of the human condition — a wonderful imperfection.
Célia: So beauty arises from this imperfection?
Achao: Exactly.
« Les Vâhanas sont des chemins d'élévation. »
Célia: Let’s talk about your Vâhanas. These vertical canvases almost make you want to look up, as if they invite you to an ascent.
Achao: It's a beautiful interpretation. The word Vâhana comes from Hindu mythology: they are the vehicles of the gods. I’ve transformed them into inner vehicles. The lines of the Vâhanas rise, the shapes soar and stretch — without excessive force. There is no effort; it’s a quiet ascent. I want the gaze to lift off the pavement, to lighten. It’s all about gentle verticality, about passage.
Célia: An ascent, but without religious transcendence?
Achao: No, there is no religion. I don’t dictate any dogma. My paintings are simply matrices that accompany the viewer — whether they seek joy, calm, prayer, or simply thought. Perhaps also meditation.
"I seek to make the space breathe."
Célia: You work a lot with monumental formats, sometimes in installations. What are you trying to provoke?
Achao: When I paint large, it’s not to impress; it’s to envelop the viewer. The large format is an invitation to enter the painting. The canvas becomes an environment, almost an architecture of light. In my installations, I like to mix my painting with the sculptures of Lars Von KFL. With this sculptor friend, we create silent dialogues. I infinitely enjoy these gentle immersions, without spectacular effects.
"The artist is but a transmitter."
Célia: You often say that the artist is not at the center, that they do not have the final word.
Achao: Yes, absolutely. I do not believe in the artist as an authority figure experiencing exceptional things. Artistic work is, for me, a work of transmission. I convey energies, emotions, but I hold nothing. Krishnamurti showed that truth is a path filled with doubts and that there is no guide. I deeply believe in this. My role is not to say "here's the world," but to open a space.
Célia: A space of freedom?
Achao: Yes. Freedom, inner silence, and emancipation.
"Deleuze, Foucault, Krishnamurti: my traveling companions"
Yes, these are indeed my fellow travelers. Deleuze taught me to grasp the act of painting and the very condition of the painter. Foucault, for his part, inspires me deeply: his thought has allowed me to conceive of my painting as an object of resistance against systems of power. That is why I see painting as a contemplative escape, a space of freedom. Krishnamurti, finally, provides the keys to cultivating a pure gaze, unburdened by conditioning. Their reflections, each in their own way, infuse my daily life and nourish my artistic practice.
"Offer a breath"
Célia: Your exhibitions often leave visitors silent, sometimes moved. What do you hope to provoke in them?
Achao: Nothing spectacular. If a viewer pauses, breathes, and feels a sense of calm—then my work has fulfilled its purpose. I seek neither to persuade nor to overwhelm. I simply wish to offer a breath, the chance to step aside. The patterns, the blurs, the transparencies—everything is designed to gently guide the gaze inward. And in that movement, perhaps the viewer may brush against something essential.
