Achao: Art of Breathing Silence

Interviews with Achao

Transcript of a conversation between Achao and Célia G. Félicien Tirtelain, art enthusiast.

Have we become blind from seeing too much? Between the luminous violence of screens and the “augmented banality” produced by artificial intelligence, our gaze dissolves into an endless stream of images. In this open-ended conversation with art enthusiast Célia G. Félicien Tirtelain, Achao offers an unflinching perspective: the swipe has become a gesture of renunciation. Confronted with the image-as-flow, he claims the “silent sedition” of painting.

Mégève, Zannier Le Chalet, France — January 8, 2026.

Célia: Recently, you mentioned to me a “silent sedition” of painting. The term is almost martial. Why this need for resistance?

Achao: Because we are living through an era of visual barbarism. This is no longer merely a matter of taste or style, but of inner survival. We have moved from the sacred image—one that could still arrest our gaze, that demanded a silent face-to-face encounter, almost a moment of contemplation—to the image-as-flow. Today, the image is no longer a site of encounter; it has become a residue.

But let us be clear: painting, through its somewhat obstinate fixity and its carnal surface, refuses this movement. By its very nature, painting is seditious because it demands time and attention, precisely where everything urges us to flee.

“The swipe is an act of renunciation. It paralyzes our mind.”

Célia: You are particularly severe about the “swipe.” You describe it as a true “choreography of contempt.”

Achao: Yes.

The smartphone has transformed the pictorial artwork into a disposable object, liquidated by a mechanical gesture. The swipe is not simple navigation; it is an ontological act. By touching the image, we commit an initial sacrilege. By flicking images away on our screens, we dismiss them without ever truly having looked at them, without giving them a chance to exist—and even less to question us.

It is contempt for seeing, contempt for understanding, contempt enacted through the swipe. What we fail to realize is that this gesture represents a definitive decentering of our inner life. With each slide of the finger, we move further away from ourselves. Make no mistake: the swipe is an act of renunciation. It paralyzes our mind—and perhaps even our capacity to become fully present in the world.

Célia: And painting, by its very nature, demands the exact opposite of the swipe.

Achao: Precisely the opposite. Painting allows the incandescence of the present moment to surface. A fragile bond is woven between the artwork and the viewer. A moment of intimacy. It does not reveal everything at first glance; it suggests.

Célia: For you, painting is clearly not a trivial matter.

Achao: Indeed, because painting captures the faint signals of our becoming. It is a projection of ourselves into the future, not necessarily a distant one. That is why a painting cannot be treated like a catalogue casually flipped through on a smartphone. Painting demands availability of the gaze, a fundamental attentiveness.

“The painter must clean everything with a high-pressure hose.”

Célia: Artificial intelligence, which you describe as “augmented banality,” further saturates this flow. Yet one could see it as an extension of the imagination?

Achao: I do not believe that. The machine does not create; it occupies space. Flood the zone, as North Americans would say. AI produces an abundance that drowns meaning. Gilles Deleuze reminded us that the painter never works on a blank canvas, but on a surface already cluttered with clichés that must first be evacuated. AI is the industrialization of these clichés. It further inundates the surface of the canvas. The painter must clean everything with a high-pressure hose in order to begin working seriously.

Célia: “Clean with a high-pressure hose”! That’s a strong image.

Achao: Yes. We must purify ourselves of all these “pornographic images” cluttering our minds—images that seek immediate seduction but offer no substance. All of them amount to a bargain-bin Pop Art, a form of entertainment that tires the eyes and necrotizes the senses.

Célia: You also criticize the use of smartphones in museums. For you, the smartphone literally interferes with the visitors’ emotional experience.

Achao: Yes. In museums, visitors like to freeze the artwork within the synthetic memory of the mobile phone, promising themselves they will look at it later. But this “later” is often an illusion. The image is archived, and there is never time to truly look at the painting, which then falls into oblivion.

In truth, the smartphone disintermediates the viewer’s experience: it inserts itself between the viewer and the artwork.

A Rothko canvas, for instance, is not an image on a smartphone screen. It is a vibration, a direct physical engagement with the volume of paint, a bodily sensation. Reducing it to a few backlit pixels is to transform the sacred into mere entertainment.

“The purpose of painting is not to flatter the human species.”

Célia: How can painting still hold its ground? Must it become spectacular in order to survive?

Achao: Absolutely not. Certainly not through immersive exhibitions where painting is presented like a fairground attraction. Painting must, on the contrary, cultivate a form of almost pathological shyness. It must preserve its strength and its charms for those who truly desire it.

Making the gaze spectacular always places humanity back at the center, when the center is already elsewhere. The purpose of painting is not to flatter the human species. The painter must paint for painting itself. Paint for trees, stones, animals, silence, breath. Or perhaps even paint for the absence of humanity in the world.

Célia: Do you nevertheless believe there is space to revitalize our attention?

Achao: Yes, that space exists. It is underground. It is the role of artists, philosophers, and a few outsiders to keep it alive—those I like to call the “watchers.” Because the only possible option is, in fact, very simple. It is glaringly obvious: to SLOW DOWN when everything accelerates. To truly look when everything scrolls endlessly.

Painting can still play that role. Not by providing answers, but by keeping the gaze open, keeping our questioning alert, preserving our sensitivity. Quietly, but with tenacity.

Transcription of the exchange between Achao and Célia G. Félicien Tirtelain, art lover. The painter speaks of painting as an inner state, a space in perpetual motion. His canvases, immense and light, are breaths, territories of silence. In this free exchange, he mentions his quest for serenity, his philosophical references, and his way of inhabiting the world through color. A calm conversation, almost suspended.

In Chamonix, France, on October 9, 2025.

"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"

Célia: One senses in your work a mind deeply nourished by philosophy. You often quote Deleuze, Foucault, Krishnamurti…
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.