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Sandrine Verdier


My journey

From the School of Fine Arts in Toulouse to the company, and from the company to the studio: at 57, I am an artist from Toulouse, mother of two grown children. Inseparable from my life as a woman and my work as an artist, their education has shaped my creative path and determined my choices: the stability of a salaried job as an artistic director for twenty years, combined with the regular practice of painting; then freelance graphic designer and teacher, when they started to fly on their own. And finally a sculptor, and faced with the need to show my work. The figurative canvases now sleep in a corner of my studio where I have been working the earth for four years.

My artistic approach

In the series of artistic mutations of my work, earth is a path to bronze – two of my works are currently entrusted to a foundry, in view of an upcoming collective exhibition in Paris – but earth remains the raw material of my creative research on the female body. It is a raw material, capable of being worked in all forms to render the tensions, and the bodily energy captured in the moment. It is also a fragile material, subject to the vagaries of drying and cooking, like an extension of the fragility of bodies. Bodies sometimes broken and recomposed, or scarified by flaws left by the experiences of life. These fragments tell stories that will perhaps become, over time, more intense than the materiality of the body fragments that they cross through. In any case, this is the path that imposed itself on me and that I decided to follow.

The murmur of bodies

My sculpture fixes life in the fleetingness of movement. It is nourished by the singular history of bodies. Its raw plastic suggests movement, without locking it into a definitive attitude. It offers a path, arouses feelings, but does not impose a narrative. Freed from the canons of formal aesthetics, the tension of a muscle or the prominence of a bone, reveal the confidence of bodies in a carnal freedom springing from matter. Loving bodies, suffering bodies, or distended by motherhood, they are told in intimate fragments, like so many secret stories whispered by light and space.

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