Born on 5 April 1960 in Soavinandriana Itasy

Member of Section I, Arts and Letters, of the Malagasy Academy

Professional address: Center of Art and Archeology

University of Antananarivo

Espace Rarihasina, 45-47, avenue du 26 juin 1960 (ex. Imm. Réné Depui).

B.P. 4129.



  • Sociocultural History - History of Art - Anthropology - Cultural Engineering and Animation
  • Cultural Chronicle and Art Critic - Arts-Plastic - Cultural Tourism Trainer

What disease, then, affects him who can not express what he feels without projecting it upon matter?

As far as I can go back in time, comes back to me, then submerges me like a tidal wave, the recollection of shapes and colors. The same ones that have helped me, throughout my journey to define and trace the outline of the universe. They impressed me to the point of determining all my taxonomic logic. I used it to get answers to all the questions I asked myself. They articulated to communicate precepts and concepts to me. I still use it to situate myself in relation to that eternal stranger who is me. I invoke them to measure the distance that separates me from my environment. Chromatic and plastic variations, my imagination is a dynamic space where moving and perpetually moving images come and go. Red and flamboyant as the fire fueled by the south-east wind, time flows over my body, affects all my being, like a flow of fire and flame consuming everything in its path. Space and infinity refer me to all the declensions of blue, the color of the soul, the spleen and the unfathomable. The brownish or lateritic hues of the nourishing clay awaken my peasant fibers. The red-orange of the setting sun, the last cry of challenge from day to night, brings me back to the wonder of a satiated thirst. Hot and sweet is the warm golden bread, raised by a bowl of chocolate. Sweet, like the heat of a holiday afternoon that restores me the taste of this first kiss stolen under the pine groves. Even the shimmering of the dew, all in brilliance and transparency, reminds me of the tears I shed for a motive I forgot. Absence and forgetting may also have chromatic consonances. Reformed by sensitivity, colors and shapes become music in my memory. The confused spots are decanted, harmonized and structured into symphonies where solitary souls come to wander.