Plop, plop ...
Stairs punctuate space, they support only themselves or the weight of dreams. Fragile and disproportionate, they are perhaps also what connects the world of Ludovic Beillard and ours.
Plop, plop ...
The sculptures invoke an esoteric architecture, fantasized to emphasize a world next door. Yet, it seems as real as dreams when we sleep: quiet outside, but so full inside, inside. It is a small oak house, lost in a forest, of those found in cold countries. Windows, we discern, winding through trees and sad flowers, paths. There could be rats or crows, but even they fled.
Plop, plop ...
The alchemist turned wood into a theater of symbols. It's a winter night spent by the fire, it's a meeting of souls silently communicating. We only see pieces of body: a pleading hand, and that big, outstretched finger. It shows ? He orders ?
Plop, plop ...
— Pierre Poumet
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