The discovery of the Bourdelle Studio was a shock to me. I was 18 years old and stayed alone in this place for some time, there I felt his presence. There are moments of magic in life and I believe enough in the metempsychosis of places and objects. A studio says a lot about the artist. Mine is always a bit of a mess with lots of work in progress. I call it my cavern because it is the internalized place where what does not yet exist is born. I won’t go too far into this comparison, but there is a little of that, a matrix side. This is a place where pieces that need to mature more slowly sometimes stay for a long time, protected by sheets of plastic which I lift regularly to re-humidify them so that the clay does not dry out before the finishing touches are made. Creation is a mystery and I sometimes have the feeling that my head and my hands are channels for invented images born of themselves. To enable me to work better, I salvaged old workbenches which I turned into work tables mounted on wheels, and there is a huge mirror which allows me to have an overview of the very large pieces. The workshop spills over into the rest of the house – giraffes await the arrival of their transporter, a big bear is on a lifting table on the veranda, small bronzes ready to go to the photo studio sit on the vestment chest, whose deep drawers enclose drawings instead of ecclesiastical clothing. In fact, the studio takes over the ground floor of my big Picardy house, just as sculpture has taken over my life.