CAMILLE SOULAT
In Camille Soulat’s world, the boundaries between the real and the ethereal blur. Her works resemble fragments of dreams, reflections captured in liquid mirrors. They speak of transformation: the everyday slipping into the mystical, bodies stretching, memories twisting. With gentleness and strength, Camille explores the margins of intimacy, identity, and everything that, in one way or another, overflows. In this conversation, we attempt to trace the echoes of her universe, following the imprints she leaves behind.
You seem to reach into the cracks of the everyday to find invisible lights. What are you searching for in these suspended moments?
In life, I’m captivated by those moments when something interrupts the flow of the ordinary, when a decision or action defies the expected. There’s a quiet rebellion in that, a force that resonates with me on a deeper level. For me, a perfect day is one where I’m out and an unanticipated occurrence catches my attention, a moment that shifts the rhythm of the world around me. I collect them.
In relationships, both in friendship and love, I’m naturally drawn to people who radiate courage and a sense of freedom—people with many layers, where every new discovery brings a surprise, as if each unfolding leads to a path I never imagined existed. This feeling is invaluable to me because it broadens the map, stimulates new parts of the brain, and simply makes life enjoyable.
The events I’m referring to aren’t necessarily grand. It doesn’t require an explosion; it can be something very small… It can just also be when I see someone using an object for something other than what it was meant for.
The figures in your work always seem to float, as if they’re hesitating between two states of being. What would a body fully freed from its limits look like?
The complexity of the brain often leads me to wonder if there’s something beyond the tangible, perhaps a higher power. The way it can change and adapt is nerve-racking.
For example, from a negative perspective, in moments of illness, aging, or even intense anxiety, when feelings of derealization or dysphoria take over, it becomes incredibly difficult to align thoughts and emotions with the body and the tangible world. It’s as if mind and body are two forces battling each other.
But it’s also remarkable how depressive states can shift unexpectedly, as if the mind can recalibrate itself, even when hope feels like a nonexistent path. One could explain all of this through science, molecules, and brain processes. But even with this rational explanation, there remains a sense that something beyond it all exists. A body fully free from its limits would be one that collaborates with the mind, not two entities fighting for the blanket in the bed.
Your works feel like they emerge from places of memory, but distant ones, almost fictional. Are you trying to revive a memory or invent a story with what you create?
At first, I drew a lot of inspiration from things in my memory, often events quite distant, related to childhood and adolescence. But there are also fantasized things or even elements inspired by YouTube or TikTok. It’s often inspired by real things or two elements I want to make coexist to give them new meaning. The title of the artwork is also very important to me; I like it to stand out.
Your works appear tender and luminous, yet they often carry an underlying tension. Where does that tension come from? The outside world or something more intimate?
I think it comes from both, as they continuously influence each other. The personal is political and the political inevitably turns inward. Beauty and horror are often intertwined. What truly fascinates me is the multiplicity of possibilities within a single thing.
Your aesthetic often plays with layers, surfaces, and reflections, like filters between us and the subject. Do these layers protect or reveal?
Both. It’s also simply an aesthetic choice; I find the effect of light to be very beautiful, soothing for the eyes.
If you could shape a reality in your image, a place where your works would fully exist, what would we see and feel?
I would recommend an experience I had very recently. I was jogging on the treadmill while listening to BABYS IN A THUNDERCLOUD by Godspeed You! Black Emperor. The club’s lights would occasionally turn off, plunging the entire gym into complete darkness. The machines kept running, their screens glowing with numbers.
The gym was packed with people striving side by side, each in their own bubble. The music influenced my perception, manipulating my brain to see the situation in a new light.
Is there a moment when you know a piece is finished? Or does everything you create remain in a state of evolution, uncertainty, like a fragment of something larger?
I feel like the piece is never really finished, to be honest, and I'm rarely satisfied. But for managerial reasons, a final point often has to be put on it. It’s true that every piece connects to the others, forming something larger.
There’s something I rarely admit out loud: I would love to create a film one day. It seems like the simplest and most complete way to be satisfied with the form, but it feels overwhelming in terms of time and funding.
When you think about your work, about what it carries and holds, is there a message or trace you’d like people to keep from you?
I don't know if there's a specific message, but I would like it to create the feeling of resonance. In the best case, it can create a sense of being understood. I want the work to no longer be just an intimate transcription, but something more plural.