Hello, I am an independent self-taught curator based in Paris. I conceive exhibitions as performative protocols that can be activated by myself or others, unfolding through contingent interactions rather than static display. My curatorial practice is drawn to artistic strategies that embrace destruction, material transformation, and participatory engagement, questioning the exhibition space and its possibilities.
For several years, I have been conducting an ongoing research on disasters and their iconographies, focusing on the ways catastrophes are aestheticized, archived, and re-enacted within artistic and curatorial discourses. This inquiry extends to the traces of lost, vanished, or missing artworks, culminating in the Oblivion Collection, a participatory online archive dedicated to gathering remnants and spectral evidence of disappeared art. By engaging with the visual and conceptual residues of destruction, my curatorial research interrogates what remains, what is forgotten, and how disappearance itself might become an artistic gesture.
StudioPoush
153 Avenue Jean Jaures 93300 AubervilliersRepresented bypal project
39 Rue de Grenelle
75007 Paris
Apex
Location
secret location
93300 Aubervilliers
Co-curator
Romain Vicari
Photo credits
Adrien Thibault
Artists
Borris Arouimi, Valentin Begarin, Célia Boulesteix, Clara Duflot, Charlotte Henninger, Malone, Matthias Odin
Statement
Since the great explosion, we've lost track of time. What's the point of trying to count the years, when it's impossible to tell day from night? The seasons are lost in a continuum of cold colors and dark temperatures. The origin of the great explosion is unknown to us. Some say it was an instant nuclear war between now-forgotten powers, while others speak of divine punishment or extraterrestrial attack. Whatever the explanation, it won't change our situation.
What we know for sure is that the Earth shook for long minutes as the sky lit up with thousands of flashes of lightning before giving way to this cloud of grey dust. Some died instantly, others agonized for days, their skin rapidly falling to shreds. These early deaths were the luckiest of all, because they didn't have to survive. They didn't have to destroy in order to tinker, to abandon in order to move forward, to kill in order to live. We're dying a much slower death, condemned to wander and glean what we can from the ruins of late capitalism. Above all, we have to live with the memory of everything we'll never experience again, of all those faces we'll never see again.
To protect ourselves from the day that never ends and the vampires that inhabit it, we've taken refuge in what seems to have been a scrap metal shop. Metal is an essential protection against the invisible evil that gnaws at our skin and reddens our eyes, an evil that burns us slowly. In this heap of useless metal, in this clatter of sheet metal and garbage, we are sheltered from the dangers of the world. No prowlers come to disturb us in this filthy gloom. Away from the chaos, we build the outline of a new universe, the genesis of a future that others will write for us, hybrid forms between a civilization to come and one that is no more.
In this scrap metal dealer who is no more, we are reminded that we are the waste products of a system that has failed to renew itself, we are the sick outgrowth of a common error, we are the haggard residues of machines that no longer work. This metal that protects us today is the same metal that led to our downfall. Before the Great Explosion, we extracted ores from the bowels of the Earth, smelted them and mixed them with others. We had machines for everything and anything, polluting our environment. One day, long before the big explosion, we were told that the Earth had nothing left to offer us, so economic crises, pandemics and wars began.