Yann Lacroix’s paintings conjure spaces that both soothe and unsettle our perception. Within each composition, structures emerge and dissolve—simultaneously revealed and erased, signalled and displaced, immersed in translucency and blur. Yet, the viewer seems to witness every gesture, every layer in his superimposed process.

As Lacroix notes, “my first emotions are attached to patterns of volcanic plateaus, mountains, forests, nature... the notion of suspense.” His work navigates this tension, suspended between architecture and vegetation, where the passage from one to the other is refracted and unstable. The vestibule remains open, the boundary porous; their contingency becomes instantly tangible.

What unfolds is an accumulation of visual memory; landscapes not as fixed geographies but as affective territories, excavating an archaeology of experience. His compositions become temporal thresholds, where the past relentlessly seeps into the present. Time, space, memory are all densely layered within what Maurice Merleau-Ponty described as l’épaisseur du monde—the thickness or density of the world. Each brushstroke becomes an attempt to capture the fleeting nature of perception itself.