Where does the title of this exhibition come from?

The title of the exhibition “La forêt usagère” comes from a discussion with Dominique Blais about a project by Patrick Bernier and Olive Martin, the subject of which is a forest in south-western France that is unique in that it is a communal asset linked to several communes. This forest is divided into several shares, which some inhabitants own in greater quantity than others. However, a share does not represent a precise area of the forest, but corresponds to the amount of wood that can be harvested by the inhabitant on the estate.

This may be dead wood for heating, or more noble wood from which to carve a ridge beam or sculpture.
What I remember from this discussion is that this forest is as much a reservoir of uses as it is a common space without territories. I think it's also a great source of conflict, and a textbook case for anyone wishing to study law.

So there's nothing allegorical in the title?

Yes, there is: it's sure to be a very forestry affair! (Laughs)
You have to understand this in relation to another allegory: a display that would be a jardin à la française.

Why this exhibition today?

The year I seriously decided to assert an artistic practice, I first sought to construct the conditions of its possibility. In the same way, I began by studying art history before going on to a Beaux-Arts-type school and concluding my course with curatorial training. In all cases, I tried to determine an order in which to do things. If the projects are well-ordered, you can imagine that they will follow this gentle logic, which has the regressive beauty of dominoes, where all you have to do is push the first one once things are in place. The advantage of logic is its obstinacy.

Is this the kind of logic on which your practice is based?

The economy I've built up is largely based on exhibition photography. I buy a certain independence by photographing the work of other artists. Exhibition photography isn't terribly technical, but it is very demanding in terms of reading. If the quality of the studio photographer is to read materials, that of the fashion photographer to read attitudes, that of the architectural photographer to translate volumes, that of the reporter to choose his side, the quality of the exhibition photographer is to know how to read the works and the infinity of discourses they can articulate.

We could say that reading is one of the ways of letting oneself be “passed through”. I am thus touched by the multitude of practices I photograph. If I adhere to the reassuring convention of documentary neutrality, nothing of these crossings shows through in the photographs I submit to my clients. But this apparent absence of affect is merely the polished surface that allows my economy to exist: I don't photograph works of art as if they were canned soup!

So the works you photograph have an influence on you?

This practice of viewing exhibitions, which brings me into contact with different types of work but also occupies part of my available time, led me early on to consider collaboration as a mode of production suited to my situation. It enabled me to get to know the artists I was interested in better, through the experience of working with them on a joint project. In series such as Les Objets Incomplets and Dessins Bifaces, the basis for collaboration is a kind of rule of the game. Again, as in exhibition photography, it's a question of setting a framework that then organizes production. It may be an object that has been hunted down for its missing parts, or a collage made from carbon paper. Both are potential objects, upstream “open works” designed to accommodate other practices, other logics, other personalities.

These series are a means of gaining knowledge. At their best, they reveal the thoughts behind the work of artists who interest me. Another advantage, not to be overlooked, is that collaboration saves me time. The work is always moving forward, even when I don't have the time to devote to it.

What are the consequences of such an approach?

I said earlier that this economy buys my independence. Independence would be an empty word if it had no consequences. First of all, it means independence in terms of production. Today's artists have many ways of realizing their ideas. From residency to gallery association, from research grant to exhibition in a wealthy foundation, each possibility requires a quid pro quo. Residencies are sometimes no more than a time-space with no resources, or worse: traps that turn the artist into a facilitator to maximize the return on his or her publicly-funded presence. A notable exception is “Artistes en Résidence”, set up by Martial Déflacieux in Clermont-Ferrand, one of the finest projects I've ever experienced.
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