Sculptures at EPFL confront the illusion of mastering nature

How did you become an artist?

I became an artist, professionally speaking, relatively late in life, but I have always been passionate about art. My father was a sculptor, so I grew up surrounded in this environment. My first degree was in political science at the University of Geneva, which I studied alongside completing my first exhibitions.

I went to university in Geneva in the 1990s and 2000s, when Geneva was completely different from what it is today. There was an extremely dynamic art scene, buildings occupied by squatters, and a highly politicized cultural scene. And that greatly contrubted to my love of art. I found territory as a collective political object extremely interesting.

Initially after graduating, I did a bit of journalism and lots of other things. Then I went back to art school at HEAD (College of Art and Design) in Geneva when I was about 30. When I left art school, I told myself that I would never be the kind of artist who stays in their studio painting all their life. My workshop would be on a global scale, wherever people live. I was fortunate to be invited early on to participate in key projects in Mongolia, China, and the United States. I felt that art couldn't be disconnected from a collective reflection on our living conditions, our relationships, and our ability to adapt to changing nature and environment.

Where did the idea for Tremblement come from?

It's a project I've been developing for four or five years now, which will also be the subject of a book coming out in January 2026. And it all started during Covid. I said to two architects I was very close to, “We are at a point where we are being forced to rethink the way we work, because the practices we know are being called into questions, and because nature is changing and transforming on a large scale.”

The first place that caught my attention was the landslide that threatened Brienz, where the population has since been evacuated many times. What fascinates me is this acceleration of natural movements, reaching the ultimate stage we see today. This leads us to question if perhaps we need to take a step back and consider that, even with all the technology and knowledge we have at our disposal, we cannot completely tame or domesticate nature.

I wanted the work to reference architectural history, using materials that have always been used in construction: wood, timber, stone, glass, and mirrors. I wanted to work with these materials in a very tense, very raw way, balancing them to convey fragility. As if all these architectural gestures had been completely swept away by a storm, like drift, the name I gave to the series of work. I liked that word, because it brings to mind rocks on glaciers, or cars drifting. The world is not straight, it's not square, it's not plannable; it's fragile.

How did you work with the unique structure of the Rolex Learning Center?

I think that for an artist, being invited to EPFL and being given carte blanche like this is a privilege, but also a responsibility and a constraint. There is the majestic setting of the Rolex Learning Center, which you have to engage with. It’s a different challenge than working in a museum or gallery, with more neutral – I love it.

What I wanted, and this was also part of the invitation, was to work outside. I really like the courtyards, because they are like breathing spaces within the building. And then there is this intelligent connection with the sky, with the light, and all these very rounded shapes. I said to myself: OK, we'll continue with this idea, but with more square shapes, more architectural, while still keeping it on a human scale. One of the major constraints is that there is a maximum load of 900 kilograms per square meter, because there is a parking garage underneath.

In my work, I always strive to have both a narrative message and to ensure that it speaks to people physically. This also explains the size of the sculptures I made at EPFL, because that is the scale of the territory. It is also a scale that systematically reminds us of our place as spectators, of our humble human size. Because we are all in relationship that means, for example, that when you are on a glacier, you need others to prevent you from falling into a crevasse – life is only possible if we manage to create solidarity, reciprocity, exchanges of skills, to work and live together.

Why do you think it is important to have a sculpture like this on the EPFL campus?

It is this ability to view disciplines not in isolation, but with a broad perspective. Many scientific discoveries are the result of unexpected surprises, and sometimes even mistakes. That’s what essential in art: bringing the unexpected or emotional into a world of rationality. Perhaps an young architect or an engineer still in school will suddenly be captivated by a work of art, here or elsewhere, that completely upends their vision of their profession. That’s also the power of art.

We held the opening at EPFL, and there were people from the art world, people from the academic and technical world, and then there were the people from the rock quarry where I worked, and it all came together in perfect harmony.