I have never really considered these disciplines to be distinct. For me, they are the different expressions of the same language. Whether it’s designing a hotel, drawing an armchair, creating a sculpture, or painting, I always pursue the same intention: to create places capable of arousing an emotion. I don’t think in terms of objects or buildings, but in terms of experiences. What interests me above all is the way in which a space can be felt, how it can awaken a memory, slow down time or provoke a feeling that is difficult to name.

Today, I would define my work as that of a creator of universes. Architecture, design, art, and objects interact to compose a unique narrative. What counts is not the discipline, but the coherence of the whole and the atmosphere that emanates from it.

In hindsight, I think that desire has always existed. Even as a child, I never looked at an object in isolation. I was more interested in how several elements could interact to create an atmosphere.

Painting taught me composition, light, and rhythm. Architecture gave me scale and permanence. Design brought me closer to gesture, touch, and intimacy. Gradually, these disciplines have ceased to be separated to form a single way of thinking. Today, I never approach a project as an addition of elements. I seek to build an ecosystem where every detail, even the most discreet, participates in a common emotion.

The atmosphere is probably the real material of my work. Wood, stone, bronze, or glass are only means of making it perceptible. I think we often forget the exact dimensions of a room or the name of a material, but we always remember how we felt. The quality of a light, the silence of a space, the softness of a wall, the smell of wood, or the way shadows evolve throughout the day remain engraved in the memory.

Creating an atmosphere is looking for the right emotion rather than a spectacular image. It is about finding the balance between the material, the light, the proportions, the time, and the know-how of the craftsmen. I like to imagine that my projects offer a form of breathing. In a world where everything is accelerating, I want to create places that invite us to slow down, to observe, to feel, and, perhaps, to reconnect with a certain form of contemplation.

I don’t see objects as elements added to the architecture, but as a natural extension of the place. An armchair, a lamp, a handle, or a sculpture can sometimes tell as much as a wall or a ceiling. In my work, the object is never only functional. It carries an intention, a more intimate, almost corporeal scale. It brings architecture closer to the hand, gesture, touch.

I like it when objects seem to belong to the place, as if they had always been there. They must dialogue with the space without simply decorating it. For me, decoration starts to be just when it stops being decorative.

Materials carry memory. Stone, wood, bronze, or ceramic are never neutral. They have a temperature, a weight, a smell, a way of capturing light and aging. I rarely choose a material just for how it looks. I’m interested in what it provokes physically and emotionally. Travertine, for example, can evoke permanence, warmth, and a form of fragility at the same time. Bronze can be noble, almost archaic, but also very sensual. Lacquer, on the other hand, can bring an almost liquid depth. The right material allows a project to have a presence. It gives the place a density, an immediate memory, as if the space had already begun to live even before it was inhabited.

If there is one project that occupies a special place in my career, it is undoubtedly my exhibition of Ojo de Agua paintings, presented at the Perrotin Gallery in New York. It was my first solo exhibition in the United States, but above all a deeply intimate project, which allowed me to return to my origins and to what has always nourished my practice. The title, Ojo de Agua, evokes a spring, a place where water gushes out naturally. I saw it as a metaphor for memory: something buried that reappears, that irrigates our identity without us always being aware of it.

Through the paintings, bronze sculptures, ceramics and the central installation, I wanted to create an emotional landscape. A work that does not tell a story in a literal way, but invites everyone to rediscover their own memories, their own roots and their own inner geography. This exhibition ultimately sums up what drives me in all my projects, whether artistic or architectural: to create places where emotion is born from matter, light, and memory. For me, a space or a work of art only really comes to life when it allows everyone to project their own story onto it.

Curiosity is born, for me, from never considering that we already know.

I love discovering a craftsman who has mastered a centuries-old technique as much as experimenting with new materials or exploring other forms of artistic expression. Each trip is an opportunity to learn a different way of working with stone, wood, metal, textiles, or light.

I am also fascinated by places that have a very strong identity. I can spend hours observing a city, a garden, a hotel or a museum to understand what creates this particular emotion.

In the end, what feeds my curiosity is everything that reveals a sensitive relationship between man, matter and time.

The biggest challenge is undoubtedly to continue to renew itself without losing its identity.

I am constantly trying to avoid repetition. Each project must be a new research, a new conversation with a place, a new story to tell. I never want to apply a recipe, even if some of the writing becomes recognizable.

I often wonder how to create places that seem timeless without being nostalgic. How to inscribe a project in its time while giving it a depth that will allow it to stand the test of time.

This tension between innovation and permanence is probably what excites me the most today.