a conversation with antoine pierini for the exhibition en rêvant la méditerranée

The following is an extract from an interview with Antoine Pierini conducted in March 2022 by the art historian and glass specialist Manuel Fadat. It covers the inception of Antoine’s career and the family glass business, and explores the path he has followed since, including the works, accumulations and installations he now produces and presents in museums around the world, and most recently in his home region, at the Museum of Classical Art in Mougins and at the current exhibition in Villa Kérylos.

back to the beginning: the studio glass movement

— Manuel Fadat: Hello Antoine. I think we agree that this sort of interview, or rather conversation, is a good way to contribute to the history of glass art in that it offers an insight and explores a message, a thought, a feeling, while at the same time providing some frame of reference in terms of space and time. Perhaps I should start by confessing I know relatively little about your work, which makes this all the more thrilling for me because we’re about to dive in and no doubt highlight a number of aspects that will interest everyone: inquiring minds, enthusiasts and experts alike. 

I’d like to find out about how you got into art, along with your approach, your underlying concerns, your aspirations, your inspirations, your symbolic, poetic and political messages, and your creative and aesthetic processes. We can obviously draw parallels with other artists, both past and present, and I imagine we’ll touch on a few influences, inspirations, tributes and quotes. I may be a little quick off the mark here, but I couldn’t help seeing a hint of Harvey Littleton, Xavier Carrère and William Morris, and the glassmakers of Murano. And that is in no way a value judgement. Quite the opposite, in fact. 

What I do know about you, is that, while you may not be a Bacchus born of Jupiter’s thigh, you are a boy from Biot, a place that boasts its own special glassmaking history—one in which the Centre du Verre Contemporain has played an integral part for two generations. A lot of people in your family have caught the glassmaking bug. I also know you are very active, engaged and proactive in the glass scene, and that you host and take part in a lot of events. I know you do your part for the glass community by supporting artists and residencies, not to mention the fact that you seem to be travelling more and more to the United States for training and exchanges. 

Before we began this conversation, we briefly discussed your work, and a few key words stuck in my mind, which I’ll like to recap now. We talked about the fact that you are particularly interested in unembellished forms as a means of exploring the essence of things, as well as movement, material effects, accumulation and monumentality, and you work through the association of ideas you want to convey. Your work often carries a raft of references, revelations, phenomena and feelings, which express your way of thinking. You strive to be less “conceptual” and instead aim to harness powerful concepts or notions, such as humanism. We also talked about the fact that you have a real interest in (and perhaps even a fascination with) antiquity and the Mediterranean, which is something reflected in your Vestiges Contemporains, which you are showing at Villa Kérylos. In short, we have a lot to talk about! 

Let’s start with a fairly open-ended question, focusing on the origin story. How did you get where you are now?  How did you end up where you are today?

— Antoine Pierini : First off, I like that you aren’t familiar with my work in any great detail. That gives us a perfect opportunity to delve deeper and get more granular. As for the political side of things, that’s something that resonates throughout my work but which I prefer to evoke rather than tackle head on. I like situations that kindle curiosity and make people think. I prefer to give pointers then leave it up to each person to create their own dialogue. Which brings us to the references you mentioned, whether through connections or kinships. That’s something I approach with a great deal of humility. As for the conceptual aspect of my work, I definitely do look to strike a balance between idea and form. And, last but not least, you’re right about the glass community: I try to move things forward and encourage sharing. I feel it’s my duty. But to get back to your initial question, I think you asked me how I got where I am today, is that right?

— MF: Right. I’d like to hear your take on the history of glass in Biot, what the place was like when you started out, what got you hooked. What made you want to learn more and make it your career. How you ended up where you are now. How it all started.

— AP: We all basically followed in the footsteps of Eloi Monod. We’re all connected to what he started, one way or another. The great thing about him is the way in which he revolutionized the way we work in the studio and the way we present our profession. He opened up the hot shop to the public, simply because glassmaking is an amazing process to behold. But the most important things are the changes he made within the workshop itself, by breaking away from traditional methods of production. My uncle Jean-Louis Fayard, who ran Eloi Monod’s glassworks, completely changed the production line and its division of labour, which was no doubt initially introduced to safeguard expertise and keep techniques under wraps—a context that created a hierarchy and skewed the balance of power. He introduced a system of production bonuses to motivate workers, but there was no hierarchy tied to expertise.

— MF: This is a story that also includes your father and your uncle, Alain Bégou.

— AP: Yes, my father and my uncles, plural! Robert Pierini, Alain Bégou and Jean-Louis Fayard, who ran the Biot glassworks then set up the Verrerie d’Allex, which built a reputation for its focus on humanism and social issues.

— MF: How did they get into glassmaking in the first place?

— AP: I don’t really know who the instigator was! [Laughs.] Jean-Louis was in charge of the Verrerie de Biot, Alain came to work on the gas system, since that was his background, and my father came in later as a “composer”—or chemist, if you will—before turning his hand to blowing.

— MF:  Your father also worked with Lino Melano, from what I’ve heard, the mosaic painter for Fernand Léger and Chagall, among others.

— AP: That’s right, Lino Melano.

— MF: That’s when your parents opened the Pierini studio then the gallery of the same name, the year you were born, in 1980. You might say it’s in your blood.

— AP: Totally. As a kid, I grew up surrounded by exhibitions and glassmakers. My parents carted me around among boxes and pieces. I slept under the table when there was a private viewing. I saw the work of glassmakers, I hung out with the children of other glassmakers, I listened to artists interact, talk about their work, create pieces, build furnaces and try out new ideas. Then I started making my own marbles, which I would take to school to play with, and which I often lost! There was a healthy dose of pride in all that, of course. I tried adding leaves of gold and silver. That’s how I first picked up the materials. For fun. To play with them. After, that, I began making paperweights when I was about 12 years old, which I continued to do until I was around 18. At the age of 15 or so, I dabbled in making a few vases and bottles, but it was still really slow going. I was more comfortable with the paperweights, which gave me my first taste of sculpture.

— MF: When you were learning the trade from your father, were you trying to copy him or did you already feel a need to experiment?

— AP: A bit of both. When you work with and for someone, you follow their lead, but at the same time, you want to try new things. And because he let me indulge my childhood curiosity with the paperweights, I already had a taste for adventure… You might start out by copying, but you already hear the call. We had a friend who worked as a waiter at Les Arcades (a hotel and restaurant in Biot). He was an intellectual and he loved glass. Whenever he had the time, he would come round to test ideas at the nearest available workbench. Before I decided to really learn the trade, we conducted experiments and came up with different forms and chemical compositions, using leaves of aluminium and brass. I didn’t know who Marinot was at the time! I just followed my instincts at first. But one of main things I should point out about that particular “learning process”—and something that makes me who I am today—was the importance of travel. We took a road trip to Italy when I was seven to find the village where my grandfather was born. When we got there, we looked at the civil register and realized it was somewhere else, so we hit the road again between Tuscany and Umbria. That was an amazing time.

— MF: So, you’re actually an Etruscan! [Laughs.]

— AP: Yes! [Laughs.] At any rate, the name Pierini comes from that region. But we also went to Rome, Naples, Herculanum and Pompei. Then, we took a second trip to Greece, where we visited Athens, and we covered all of Crete. I was awestruck. My mother took me to archaeology museums and I didn’t want to leave. I was fascinated by the design of the vases and other pieces. I’ve always been interested in antiques, archaeology and history. That’s why I loved the work of William Morris, which I discovered when we went to Seattle, and why I was later captivated by the power in Arman’s work.

new horizons, a trip to seattle

— MF: How old were you? And why exactly did you go to Seattle?

— AP: I was 15. It’s a funny story. It started when some American glassmakers came to Biot and visited the workshop. They got on really well with my parents, even though my folks didn’t speak English very well. Mark Eckstrand was one of the first, then there was David Bennett, who went to study under Pino Signoretto in Murano and stopped in Biot on the way back. Unfortunately, he and his wife had all their belongings stolen, so my parents put them up and lent them some money, so they invited us to visit them. And we stayed a month. That was when everything fell into place. I discovered Dale Chihuly, we visited the Boathouse, and, as I said, I fell in love with the work of William Morris, especially his Canopic jars with the heads of doe and deer, and his vases showing scenes from prehistory. It was my first time in the United States and I was all about the American dream. That was the time of Michael Jordan, hip hop…

— MF: So, was it this sudden cultural awakening that made you decide to become a glass artist?

— AP: You could definitely say the trip triggered something.

— MF: This next question is on a bit of a tangent, but I feel it’s a natural follow-on. At that age, did you have more of an affinity for the work of Morris, Chihuly or your father? Or did you want to encompass everything?

— AP: I had my preferences. I was really impressed by the monumentality of Chihuly’s work, but I felt that what Morris was doing was remarkable. There’s something unprecedented about his work. He has a way of presenting things. There’s a certain poetry to it. He’s an artist with a vision who brings a team of creators with him. It’s wonderful. There’s something very humanist and universal—two concepts I try to convey in my own work. He tackles powerful themes. He’s worked on figuration, abstraction and light, and his work has a really strong presence. I also do my utmost to push the envelope in creating and sharing.

— MF: You give part of your earnings back to the glass art community. A noble commitment. Is that because you feel it’s important to actively contribute to dynamizing glass art and helping it grow?

— AP: Exactly. Inviting artists, sharing art, providing opportunities to create... It’s an incredible community. I’ve been to some amazing places, I’ve met people who are equally amazing, and I’ve always been made to feel welcome. I think the people who make up our community have really made some life choices. They are committed to their passion. Broadly speaking, we all face very similar challenges. That’s why there’s such a bond between people in the glass community. Sadly, we no longer have the time to stand idly by.

— MF: You mentioned the environment, so let’s talk a bit about Francine, your mother, and her commitment and influences.

— AP: The older I get, the more I realize what a big part she has played in my life. She gave me a taste for culture, civilization, antiquity and humanism, not to mention a love of nature. She grew up on a farm in the mountains of the Drôme region, in southeast France, surrounded by nature. She lived through the Second World War. Her parents fought for the French resistance. My mother is the embodiment of nature and resistance. That’s a mindset I grew up with. She belongs to 16 associations that work to protect the environment, sits on 11 boards of directors, and is a curator for CEN PACA, an organization that works to protect flora and fauna throughout the south of France. She has had 182 hectares of land in Biot and Villeneuve-Loubet protected under the Natura 2000 initiative. She fights for air and water quality. And she’s determined to have an outstanding archaeological site in Biot listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. There’s an old supervolcano below our feet here, so the substrate holds a wealth of hidden geological treasures. She even got me my membership cards! I follow all of this really closely. I keep an ear to the ground and we talk about it. It concerns me and affects me deeply.

— MF: That’s something that really shines through. Especially when you’ve met Francine! I don’t know whether you realize it, but it filters through and permeates your work on every level! She connected you and allowed you to hear the upheaval and the ups and downs in the world, as well as the mysteries of nature!

— AP: You mention mysteries, which makes me think of some sort of pagan spirit. Which makes sense, I suppose. My mother is like a witch. She watches over nature. She’s connected. She has some sort of gift...

— MF: That’s a wonderful way to put it. But let’s get back to the younger you. You have the resources: the studio and the gallery. You’re about 20 years old. The bedrock is there. There’s something in the air. You have influences and references. You don’t yet have a huge amount of perspective. But you make up your mind. You go for it. You push on. You make progress. You explore… Can you tell me more about that transition from the day you decided to take the plunge and day you chose to pursue the gallery adventure?

— AP: I started by becoming my father’s assistant. I’d always seen him make massive sculptures, back in the eighties, in addition to making decorative art. But for more than six months, he didn’t make a single piece. He spent all his time teaching me, guiding me, pushing me hard, helping me. I worked on pieces to perfect my technique and I eventually produced my own work. That’s how I ended up with my first exhibition in a gallery in Cologne, in 2001. I sold nearly everything, which gave me my start and made me want to carry on. Then I worked with my father over the next few years, each time doing more and more, to the point where I knew how to make nearly all of his pieces and could do almost everything he was able to do. At the same time, he gave me more and more time to pursue my own research and exploration. He taught me how to learn “by ear”, like some of those Flamenco guitarists. He helped me develop my feelings, my instincts, even when I had lingering questions. But there were still a lot of things I wasn’t necessarily doing well when starting out on a piece, which I realized when I went to Pilchuck in 2010.

— MF: So, you went abroad to polish your training. That must have been an amazing trip. Was that the first time you had studied somewhere else?

— AP: Yes and no. I had also been to Sars-Poteries, in northern France, for a course in fusing and casting with Udo Zembok and David Reekie. That was really interesting. But in the United States I felt a special energy. I felt lifted, supported, connected.

first sculptures: apesanteurs

— MF: What sort of pieces were you creating back then?

— AP: They were decorative pieces, inspired by nature, landscapes and floral patterns. Then, in 2002, I started working on larger sculptures, drawing on intuition and exploring with fairly aggressive cuts into a sensual block of glass. I liked the idea of contrasts and abstract sculptures. Then, for a whole period, I made a lot of drawings and came up with Apesanteurs. It started out as weightless, vertical and horizontal bands of colour in a transparent mass, inducing contemplation. But it took me two years to find the right way to apply them. Then, I started to turn them into waves, with more movement. Through trial and error, I came up with forms and results that really appealed to me. As soon as I was able to veer away from my father’s work, I did so. As soon as I was able to get away from the pleating and draping, I followed that path. The goal is always to find the path, the right path, the one that suits us, the one that helps us grow, move forward, break new ground and express our ideas. I’ve always leaned toward sculpture and installation, and that’s what I do today. I’ve also been keen to explore what the Americans call glass “panels”, ever since I began taking more of an interest in the work of Hans Hartung, Ana-Eva Bergman and Mark Rothko.

— MF: And after Apesanteurs you came up with Collines ?

— AP: Yes Collines.

— MF: How did that transpire?

— AP: Well, my mother has been to the Sahara twice and I’ve never been able to go with her. When she came back, she opened her bags and showed us the little things she’d found. She shared her photographs and she told us stories. It was as if we’d travelled with her vicariously from Biot. It was amazing. Nowadays, it’s too dangerous to go. But through the way she talked and the images she conveyed, she really made me feel the desert, the immense stretches of sand and that sense of infinity. The most striking thing was the sand. Those soft, ever-shifting shapes. At first, I really wanted to capture the sand, the dunes, the contours, the lines and the patterns. But I very quickly moved on to concave and convex shapes, from a less realistic perspective. That’s when I realized I was more interested in playing with the different volumes and the way they fit together, making them into modules and working on accumulation to develop my installations. Through the cumulative material effects and the use of colour, I was able to create a sort of perpetual motion. In the end, the different elements speak to one another, there’s a connection and interaction between the component parts that creates an overall coherency. These notions of motion, interaction, connection, combination, installation, accumulation and material effects are really the guiding principles in my work. They are like a theme that runs through it. A kind of working drawing.

— MF: And there’s also light. You play with the light. It falls on forms, volumes and volutes. It passes through or skims the surface. It creates visual effects. It brings out colours. It highlights the grain or texture. It creates a sense of contrast and clearly develops that impression of movement. The word “impressionist” springs to mind. I would even go as far as to say “percept” in this particular case. The piece is brought to life by all of these combined effects, and conveys that sense of the desert as we feel the wind, the light and that perpetual motion. Which leads me onto another question. What about the history of art? The history of form? Dating back to the cave paintings and even before, with the initial use of symbols. Is that something you delve into? Do you research it and read up on it? Do you use it as a source of inspiration?

— AP: Research and reflection are a key part of my creative process. It can take me years to come up with a project and hone my thoughts. But there’s also a sense of intuition, which leaves room for more spontaneity, and my choice of style and form. Colonnes Roseaux took me four years. Four years to develop everything and find the right balance. I wanted it to be shown indoors and outdoors. I wanted it to be monumental, modular, drawing on accumulation. I wanted to vary the chromatic and material effects. At first, you always hit hurdles. You lose a lot of time on technique and design. You have to find the right person to work the metal. You need the right diameters, the right proportions. And all the while you’re refining your approach. Now, with time, I tend to hit fewer stumbling blocks from a technical standpoint, which leaves me more room to focus on the storytelling. Some of the great names who have left their mark on modern art have drawn inspiration from other civilizations. Take Brancusi, for example, who drew inspiration from Asian and African forms for his Endless Column, and Duchamp’s famous comments on the aesthetic purity of a propeller.

on the rock and fundamental forces

— MF: It seems you find balance between your world, your desires, your approach, your technique and your resources. And on the subject of your world, I’d like to talk a bit about another series, which you’ve called On the Rock. What does On the Rock represent, with its combination of mineral and synthetic materials? How did you come up with the idea? 

— AP: It was quite simple, really. I met a geologist through my mother, who talked to me about natural glass. I already knew about obsidian, of course, but finding out there were various types in their natural state was a real eye-opener. I went to see all his conferences, I invited him to my place and I even bought a few fulgurites. We talked a lot. I came to understand how lightning creates glass. For instance, if lightning strikes and then things cool really slowly, you can get quartz crystals. But if things cool really quickly, you get glass. I gradually grew more and more interested in weaving a story around this relationship between lightning, rock and glass. 

— MF: How did you approach On the Rock?

— AP: I poured the glass straight onto the rock and added a few inclusions, mainly metal. I also worked on colours and materials. To my mind, these combinations are clearly a metaphor for the transformation of the material. And there are lots of other little associations. The light blue evokes ice-cold mountain streams. The rough-cut rock reflects the power of the streams, the strength of the current, and so on.

— MF: So, beyond the combination of glass and stone, which provided a platform to express an idea, you’re saying these pieces were a metaphor for motion and the transformation of the elements. And, as you say, there were lots of other little associations involved. There’s something demiurgic here. You were providing a small-scale recreation in your own way of something happening on a monumental, metamorphic scale, full of fire, action, reaction and explosion. Does On the Rock perhaps capture the memory of some form of telluric activity?

— AP: There’s a strong connection to the La Vallée des Merveilles (the Valley of Wonders in southern France), which is known for its petroglyphs. There are a lot of interpretations and I’m no specialist, but it’s a place where people conveyed their connection to the cosmos. Some see it as a sort of giant observatory. And it’s also a place marked by lightning. Yet it’s also a mystical and mythological place. Some believe it was home to the original gods: the Earth Goddess and the Bull God harnessing the power of the storm... That could be another interpretation of the engravings. You should definitely visit the Valley of Wonders museum. It’s fascinating!

— MF: So, you draw on these fundamental stories, these things that fascinate you, that astound you, just as they have always fascinated humans—lightning and fire—and you delve into cultural heritage and local geology to inspire your work. Are we talking contextual art here?

— AP: Yes, I can feel all that flowing through me. It’s a part of me. Just like archaeology and the Mediterranean steered me towards Vestiges Contemporains. But since we’re talking about contextual art, I should also say I did a residency at the Tacoma Museum Of Glass in 2014, mainly involving the On the Rock series, and was even complimented by Walter Lieberman, one of the pioneers of the Studio Glass Movement. So yes, I also worked on the contextual aspect. Mount Saint Helens erupted in 1980. For two months, citizens were on high alert. It was terrible. It changed people’s lives. It transformed the lay of the land. The whole cone exploded. We visited the eruption area and, even though we couldn’t walk around, we were able to gather rocks to create pieces. The museum kept some. One was sold and one is on display. This relationship to the volcano, fire and lighting—those natural forces that dominate us—is really something that resonates with me. 

— MF: Very poetic. And before we move onto Vestiges Contemporains, perhaps we could talk about Ivresses?

— AP: With Ivresses, I wanted to move away from the concept of a utilitarian object and divert it from its primary function. I started with the idea of transmission: when you make art, as far as I’m concerned, the goal is to transmit something or at least suggest something. I’d go as far as to say that if you can strike the right balance between form, effects, colours, materials and so on, you can induce an altered state. Baudelaire and Nietzsche both talked about that sense of euphoria. So, I played with the concept of style, substance, signifier and signified. I wanted to create an installation that produces an optical sense of euphoria through accumulation, movement, material effects and more.

amphoras and vestiges contemporains

— MF: Let’s move onto Vestiges Contemporains, which is the legacy and the condensation of nearly 20 years of experience, relationships and encounters, as well as a love of the Mediterranean, travel, archaeology, geology and naturalism. Is it fair to say the memory of those traditional earthenware jars flows through your Vestiges Contemporains? Would you call it a tribute, perhaps some sort of symbolic conservation?

— AP: It began as an act of awareness-raising and turned into a project based on a symbolic piece in the shape of the Biot earthenware jar, which can now be found as far afield as the United States and the West Indies, because the containers can hold drinking water longer than barrels. That led me to focus on amphoras, which have an iconic, symbolic power. So, the amphoras are actually imbued with the memory of the Biot jars. Amphoras convey so much. In a way, they are more universal than the jars. We’ve made a wide variety of them all around the Mediterranean. And amphoras are ephemeral. In the past, once they’d been used, they were often broken up and the pieces used in walls and as backfill. You can find amphoras in the subsoil of any city. They come in all shapes and sizes: anthropomorphic, slender and potbellied. They symbolize the connection between civilizations all around the Mediterranean. They have enabled ties and encouraged trade. They take us back to antiquity—a time that saw a wealth of discovery and evolution in every aspect of writing, mathematics, science, medicine, philosophy, astronomy and navigation. They take us back to everything that has happened since the dawn of the Greek, Roman, Arab, Egyptian and other civilizations. The movement of those amphoras naturally brings to mind other cultures and different points of view, as well as conflict and mutual enrichment; we forget about the Western-centric world. What is more, the amphoras bring people together more than they divide them. That’s important to me. They reflect the broad brush strokes of my approach: humanism, universalism, culture, adventure and travel. They carry messages. They are like bottles thrown into the sea. I would even venture to say this work also draws on the combined influences of some of my spiritual masters, such as Arman with his series on New Atlantis and his archaeology of the future, and Brancusi for his refined, minimalist forms.

— MF: They are at the “crossroads in the labyrinth”, a title I borrowed somewhat unceremoniously…

— AP: Yes, I like that expression. But to follow on from what I was saying earlier, all those projects I work on inspired by past concerns and reflections provide a kind of common theme. A journey though the Mediterranean is a chance to talk about nature and people while at the same time looking at our impact, and to think about what I produce as a person. Which also raises political questions. Because where does the Mediterranean space begin and end today? Is it open? Is it closed? Is this natural space under threat? Without referring to it directly, we’re talking about the situation of those who risk their lives by fleeing their country, those who die and those who are reluctant to welcome others. We’re talking about a place and a sea awash with conflict, domination and of course pollution. Everything is mixed together. The Mediterranean is everything all at once. Amphoras have always been and still are a poetic way to evoke travel, the sea and humanity, not to mention other existential questions.

— MF: The sea that is both limitation and liberty, a symbol of perpetual transformation. The “ever-recommencing sea”, to paraphrase the poet Paul Valéry. But we could also talk about life and death. For some people, it evokes fatality, fate, or whatever else, but the subject is open and far-reaching. What speaks to me is that each series gives you a chance to embrace an issue, explore it in your own way, expand on it, draw parallels, contemplate and share. Each piece is a crystalized facet of contemplation. And, at the end of the day, it’s perhaps less about the series than the search for something; the need to work through something. We often say art is about finding yourself…

— AP: Glass is definitely as much limitation as liberty! [Laughs.] Embarking on a project also means taking a risk, which appeals to me. As I was saying, my projects aim to evoke the human condition, our lifestyles and our impact on nature while avoiding any sort of prejudice, hasty conclusions or common views. Above all, I’m just trying to foster debate.

the exhibition at villa kérylos

— MF: Foster debate… I’d like to jump in there to talk about the exhibition and what you’re showing at Villa Kérylos. You work with the place, at the place and in the place, as well as with the spirit of the place. The exhibition interweaves temporalities, as well as references to Classical culture, the Mediterranean and contemporary art, not to mention the existential, social, plastic and aesthetic aspects. It gives us a forum for questioning and debate. It’s like a tipping point, a point of convergence, or even a monumental work in situ that interacts with the spirit of the place. Could you perhaps touch on that and tell us in what way it represents your here and now? Can you tell us about its origins, its history and about what you have on display, what you’re bringing together and the themes you are exploring?

— AP: The opportunity to show in such prestigious surroundings so suited to my work is immeasurable. The villa is not a replica. It’s a recreation of a dwelling from Ancient Greece, with all the modern conveniences available in 1908. It transcends time. And in that sense it is very similar to my own approach. I immediately set out to establish a dialogue with the place, to draw inspiration from and listen to the surroundings, to create pieces as if they were part of the place, as if they had been created by the place. For example, the villa sits on a rocky promontory and part of it is built on an old customs trail, which is now walled and has a big glass window that the sea crashes against. However, the sea rises up into this space through a special drainage system, which is fascinating to behold because it sweeps in like a guest. Villa and sea live together in perpetual motion. That’s why I set out to create an installation with waves of glass, La Mer Intérieure, featuring different forms, textures and dimensions reflecting this remarkable encounter. All the installations are based on this same approach, drawing on different archetypes. The sea here, the light and sun there. But also the vegetation, and of course the amphoras, which I feel capture the spirit of the Mediterranean. I came up with the idea of creating a series of amphoras in shades of white—opaque, translucent and transparent—onto which I could project moving images. I wanted to provoke introspection, to immerse the onlooker in the experience and take them on a journey inward. By projecting images of the shifting sea—calm, stormy, choppy and raging—along with images of the abyssal depths and the sky, I was looking to create a symbolic journey. The shadow of the amphoras is clearly present and makes a real impression. It’s anthropomorphic and reminiscent of Cycladic art. It’s the positive influence of the past. It’s our legacy.

— MF: You’re right, they do make you think of Cycladic figurines. And of the marble stargazers in Asia Minor, from the Copper Age, which I discovered recently. There’s something hieratic about them. They keep watch. And we encounter these amphoras in several places. You arrange them differently in each setting. They tell many a tale. One of those amphora-based installations is called Après la Bataille. Would you tell us more about it?

— AP: There’s an interesting reference [from Albert Camus’ essay Helen’s Exile] that provides a framework for that installation:
“O thought at the meridian, the Trojan War is waged far from the battlefield.” We’re talking about the ideological and philosophical war against nihilism. That was my starting point. After that, I just followed my intuition. I wanted to talk about war. But we’re also in the room dedicated to Dionysos, to bright Mediterranean wisdom, to immoderation and excess. Here, we find ourselves after a battle or an orgy. We’re among the remains of broken amphoras. We’re picking up the pieces.

— MF: We are taken aback by these remnants. They make us think. In a sense, it’s reflexive. You don’t give any clues. Only cues. And you let the senses to do the rest.

— AP: Yes, I didn’t want to define. I wanted to keep it polysemic. I took the amphoras created for the Museum of Archaeology in Antibes in 2016 and destroyed them by pouring molten glass onto them. Then, I recreated the piece with these new vestiges of jars and amphoras.

camus and la pensée de midi

— MF: There’s definitely a sense of violence there too. What does that violence convey? Is it existential? Does it come from within you? The world in which you live?

— AP: I’m dealing with a lot of rage and anger. I feel a sense of injustice. We kill. We kill again. It goes beyond anything we can imagine, both individually and collectively. But in the end, why? Why such nihilism? I really relate to the writing of Albert Camus, Thierry Fabre and René Char, who helped construct what has become known as La Pensée de Midi, which has often been translated as “Thought at the Meridian”. I see it as one of many truths. It’s a lead, or potential path, if you will. It might seem idealist. Some would even say utopian. But for me, it’s a source of inspiration. We’re at a turning point. We’re facing one crisis after another: political, social, environmental, industrial. Perhaps it’s time, among the debris, that we stopped to think.

— MF: Among the debris of immoderation, amid the chaos, there can be a resurgence of life and thought. To paraphrase Nietzsche, you still have a little chaos in you to give birth to dancing stars. Or to borrow from Pasolini and Didi Huberman, your fireflies still survive in the darkness. Beyond the debris, you also have those amphoras intersected by light, by neon lights. The mood is more intimate, more spiritual. Is this a renaissance?

— AP: You could also see those pieces as violent, pierced by spears of bright light. The neon lights represent different paths, different lives, different civilizations, all of which are connected and interwoven. I see them as the soul of the Mediterranean. The metaphoric amphora that is traded, shared and brought to market; the different people who touch it, fill it, nurse it, enrich it and load it. This is where East and West mix. I see these amphoras as living things.

— MF: Intersections, encounters and melting pots. These are all characteristic of your work. The place, the amphoras, the neon lights, their arrangement. All of these signs dancing between them, telling a story and conveying a message—often a message of hope as with the installation Lignes Solaires. Here, we see positive light in the face of ignorance.

— AP: Absolutely. I use the light of the glass as my materia prima. In the face of absurdity and injustice, sunlight brings bright wisdom, consciousness. It is a tribute to hope. There’s a connection between the light and the engagement.

— MF: That makes me think of Habermas, who more or less says we should hold onto hope. Even though some would say hope is the leash of submission. But there’s clearly a solar streak running through your work. There’s a determination to believe. A sense of commitment and longing. Your pieces become beacons, notes, reminders. You lay out your ideas carefully. They are symbolic acts, symbolic attitudes, and when you present them to us, you see them as active, living things, which creates a kind of sympathetic magic. They resonate. They remind “you” that you are alive and you show them to us to remind us to think. They are landmarks that help us get our bearings (repères). Some of your work is actually called Arbres Repères. Could you tell us more about it?

— AP: I really think of them that way. As actions, symbols, connectors, binders or bearings. Arbres Repères represents a hybridization, a reflection. I got some remnants from a friend who works with marble. I used stones from Spain, Italy, Tunisia and Egypt. Leftovers and scraps that I asked to use, as friezes or fluting, to evoke the ruins of ancient monuments. Like the debris, these remnants can help spark a renaissance. The concept is simple, but I feel it is essential. One civilization dies out, but others are born. Humans die out, and nature reasserts itself.

— MF: Memento mori ?

— AP: Yes. And from an artistic or aesthetic standpoint, I’m really comfortable with these pieces that soar, like Colonnes Roseaux. These vestiges are civilizational, philosophical and historical beacons. They are points of convergence we can hold onto. Our new guiding light will be harmony with nature. Or at least an effort to achieve that balance.

— MF: We talked about your pieces and the way they are at one with their surroundings, the way they inhabit and are inhabited by those surroundings. We’ve talked about the poetic, symbolic and philosophical aspects of your art. But if you had to summarize the issues that flow through your work, what would you say?

— AP: I see En rêvant la Méditerranée mainly as a eulogy to love. It embodies wonder, questioning, contemplation, introspection, absurdity, hope and that Pensée de Midi. As has been the case with all of my work for some time, it was greatly influenced by the thinking of Albert Camus. With Camus, there’s a cycle: love, absurdity, revolt, love. That’s what was going through my mind. Then there is the refinement, in the text, in the choice of words, in the ideas. When I think about the great author, I think about his unique touch, his fair and balanced style, and I try to draw inspiration from that in my own art.

— MF: Camus brings you meaning in life, you follow in his footsteps, and his spirit permeates the exhibition...

— AP: I was incredibly lucky to be given the opportunity to show my work in a place so consistent with and in tune with my own world. I love to have my work tied to places that hold meaning for me, and to create pieces that resonate with those places. I dreamed of showing at the Museum of Archaeology in Antibes, I dreamed of showing at the Museum of Classical Art in Mougins, which I have done. I dreamed of showing at Villa Kérylos, and I dream of showing in Naples or Athens, or in Sicily. I would also love to show my work in Beirut, which is an extraordinary city that is both powerful and paradoxical.

— MF: Your pieces express that sun-drenched Mediterranean spirit, with an open, humanist vision of the world. Allegories, if you will. You are a creator, an artist. You transform material. You transform your ideas. Your sculptures are mnemonic and aesthetic triggers. You are driven by a tremendous energy, by a strong desire to create, shape, invent, perform and collaborate. Could you tell us more about all those projects you have swirling round in your head, about your challenges and perspectives in terms of research and creation?

— AP: I think what we’ve just talked about has already answered that question to some extent, when it comes to being full of ideas. Right now, as an artist, I am entirely invested in this exhibition. It encapsulates everything I love to do and plan to do in the future: associate, combine, collaborate, generate… This exhibition, which spans different temporalities and is a creative process in itself, has already begun to open doors for the future. So, I will remain in the present and continue my work, then I will move onto a new project while taking the time to digest everything, just as the olive slowly ripens. Focus on the human condition. Try to bring people together rather than divide them. Continue to take a stand. Engage in projects that carry meaning.

— MF: This exhibition is like a plot of land. You till the soil, you sow seeds, you let things germinate. Everything is in gestation and you’re letting things unfold to see how best to tackle the trees...

— AP: I’d say I do what I can, by trying to strike a balance between my hopes, realities and frustrations. For instance, I’d like to take the time to dive back into Nietzsche, Freud, Char, Valéry and others. Literature and philosophy are an essential part of my life. But I never lose sight of what it means to work with my surroundings, which I’m doing right now, and I know that’s what I want to do in the near future. Museums, art galleries, art foundations,  gardens, houses, historical sites...

— MF: On the subject of your current surroundings, this is a place that is also brimming with ideas, desires, experiments and inventions. It’s constantly changing; it’s an ongoing transformation. You promote other artists, you schedule events, you strive to have a significant cultural impact. How do you see the future? What forces are at play? How do you see things unfolding?

— AP: This place means a lot, as we’ve already said. I was born here. I grew up here. I have seen the place change. The workshop turned into a studio and gallery then the Centre du Verre Contemporain, dedicated to contemporary glass art in its many guises, with worldwide reach. We have taken things even further in the past few years with a focus on sharing and impetus. This is a place that increasingly collaborates with other venues to promote glassworking. We have close ties to Pilchuck and Tacoma, and the leading figures who make those places what they are today, who are driven by a strong commitment that reflects our own. We welcome artists on residencies, we make our premises, our facilities and our expertise available to them. This allows them to discover other cultures, other ways of life and other ways of working. We actively contribute to major initiatives like the Biot International Glass Festival in Europe. We are involved in creating projects in North America. We welcome artists, we visit other countries, we build bridges. It’s an open environment. It’s a place that creates a bond. Above all, it’s a place with a human face.

Manuel Fadat , Art historian and glass specialist