Swann Ronné — En questions
Swann Ronné’s painting reflects the omnipresent signs and languages within the urban landscape. As the centerpiece of our visual architecture, symbols lose their primary meaning in an attempt to perhaps rediscover their essential essence and build new horizons. In this conversation, he unveils the stages of his journey as an artist, where movement and its accidents become a driving force to enrich his practice.
How did you come to art, and what has your journey been like so far?
I never thought I would become an artist. I grew up in a creative environment, but I observed it from a certain distance. My mother wrote, my father, very skilled and versatile, created all kinds of things with remarkable ease: art objects, designer furniture. My grandmother devoted herself to analog photography, and my brother played the drums. It felt like everything was already taken. As for me, I was in search of movement. I was an agile child, passionate about extreme sports, particularly ice hockey and snowboarding. What fascinated me was the glide and balance, the sensations of fluidity and freedom one feels when moving almost effortlessly. But even more, I was captivated by the traces these movements left behind. That’s what eventually led me to painting.
Having always drawn, when the time came to choose a direction, I decided to join a high school that offered an arts option. Thanks to the kind and supportive eye of an art teacher, who believed in me and encouraged me, I first felt I might be on the right track. One day, she called my parents in and, in front of me, declared with almost unsettling confidence that I would become an artist or, at worst, an architect. That made me laugh! Yet, after that, I began to understand that this need for movement, these physical sensations I sought, could also exist elsewhere. I then joined the regional school of fine arts, the Beaux-Arts de Caen/Cherbourg. My first year gave me a great sense of freedom. The professors were approachable and let us explore various mediums in an atmosphere that was both serious and joyfully irreverent. Our days alternated between theoretical classes, studio practice, and moments spent outside playing basketball or skateboarding. That’s where I understood that art, gestures, and movements could all be part of the same entity—and that art could go beyond traditional frameworks.
It was first through drawing that I rediscovered a connection to gesture and space, a way of playing with forms and traces. Art gradually became a more introspective way for me to explore these sensations. Painting, however, had always intrigued me, but it felt more intimidating, almost inaccessible, because of its historical weight and nobility. Three years later, encouraged by a painter with whom I had done an internship, I joined the P2F atelier at the Beaux-Arts de Paris. There, I discovered a different kind of freedom, one that was more demanding, where every decision contributed to defining my approach. It was there that I fully embraced painting as my medium, guided by three professors I admired, who understood and were open to these ideas of shifts, movements, and subversive gestures. I was lucky enough to exhibit during my first year in Paris in 2018. After earning my degree in 2021, I set up my studio in the Paris region. I’ve just returned from a year-long residency in China, a project born of an unexpected and decisive encounter, which profoundly enriched my practice and broadened my perspective.
How would you define your practice?
I work primarily with painting, a medium that allows me to engage with a wide range of references: graphic design, poetry, music, but above all, the urban environment. What I love about painting is its ability to capture traces and visual fragments. Each canvas emerges from a flow where I am guided as much by deliberate decisions as by accidents. These unexpected moments, sometimes intentionally provoked, lead me to adjust, cover, or preserve elements, creating a balance between control and spontaneity. It’s a dynamic, instinctive, almost physical process that reminds me why I chose this medium. What I’m looking for is to explore the boundaries between communication, abstraction, and identity. My work oscillates between familiar references and pictorial gestures that question erasure, memory, and visual language. This process is a way to dialogue with the world around me while also reflecting, in an intimate way, on the meaning of images.
Do you see yourself breaking away from a history (of art, forms, ideas), or continuing a tradition?
I don’t think it’s ever entirely one or the other. There’s always an element of rupture with certain movements or ideas, but we are often much more connected to what we admire, to what has shaped us. What we’ve loved and observed inevitably influences us, consciously or not. In modern art history, particularly during the avant-garde movements, there was this myth of the artist who arrives and invents something radically new, creating “ex nihilo.” But I think that’s an illusion. In reality, artists are deeply shaped by their environments, by what has nourished and inspired them. We are merely continuing, sometimes unconsciously, paths already started by others. This continuity isn’t negative; in fact, it allows us to resonate with a heritage that transcends us.
As for me, I feel connected to the legacy of abstract painting and a certain modernity; a flat, sometimes conceptual painting that delves into questions of space, surface, and meaning. At the same time, I strive to create tensions, to challenge these traditions in search of my own answers. For me, rupture is more of a personal than historical matter. What interests me is breaking away from myself, from my own work. I enjoy destroying, covering, erasing. These acts of erasure or layering create a tension between what deserves to be preserved and what doesn’t. This dynamic, balancing conservation and destruction, continuity and rupture, is central to my creative process.
What impact do you seek to have on the viewer?
I aim to create a multifaceted impact, oscillating between the rational and the intuitive, the familiar and the unexpected. My ambition is to surprise, sometimes destabilize, while reaching a broad audience. I’m interested in bringing viewers to a slightly shifted state of consciousness, where they can smile, reflect, and feel a certain unease. In my work, phrases or elements might appear light or inconsequential, but they often invite a second look, a deeper reading. I like cultivating a soft irony, a subtle detachment that leaves room for personal interpretation and the unexpected. I aim to share a beauty that is both sensitive and accessible, balanced delicately between lightness and gravity. A beauty that doesn’t impose itself but invites reflection, even a smile, while carrying deeper tensions. I hope viewers are first struck by an immediate, instinctive impression, only to uncover, upon closer inspection, more complex nuances.
Do you provide all the keys for understanding, or do you maintain areas of ambiguity in your work?
This question came up particularly after my exhibition in China, for which the art center published a catalog. This catalog was also a response to a difficulty I sometimes encountered there: the language barrier. It allowed me to make my work more accessible and to communicate differently when direct exchanges were limited. This format is ideal for deepening reflections and sharing keys for understanding. The book includes texts, two interviews, and photos taken throughout my residency. This exercise enriches both my work and its reception. The feedback I received reinforced my belief in the importance of providing clues. Without these keys, certain aspects of my work, often cryptic or coded, risk remaining too opaque. At the same time, I find it just as important to maintain areas of ambiguity. On one hand, because I don’t have all the answers myself, my process is often intuitive, and some works emerge from accidents or spontaneous gestures. On the other hand, because I believe these shadows, these ambiguities, enrich the viewer’s experience and leave room for personal interpretation. Over time, I’ve realized that what I once considered anecdotes were often the true triggers for my works. A phrase overheard, a fleeting observation, an unexpected discovery—these stories become entry points, offering a context that illuminates certain aspects of the work while preserving a sense of mystery.
Could you tell us a bit about your current exhibition?
My exhibition I Just Need a Sign at the Galaxy Museum of Contemporary Art ended a few weeks ago. It followed a 10-month residency in the world’s largest city, Chongqing, China. Nicknamed the “Cyberpunk City,” this metropolis has a unique architecture nestled in the mountains and brims with signs blending tradition and technology. I presented around forty paintings, divided into two distinct bodies of work across two separate rooms. This separation felt interesting to show the evolution of my reflection and to account for this new visual framework while incorporating the back-and-forth exchanges that enriched my practice during this residency. The exhibition explored how signs, whether visual or linguistic, shape our interactions in a world that can sometimes feel foreign. In China, I was struck by the power of characters and numbers, both familiar and enigmatic. It’s this tension, between what is immediately accessible and what remains elusive, that I sought to convey in this exhibition.
Has the practice of exhibiting changed the way you work?
Yes, exhibiting is an essential part of my practice. In the studio, the works remain on hold, in a transitory state, sometimes seeming incomplete. It’s during the exhibition that they come to life, finding their place and meaning through a dialogue with space and the public. This moment, where everything comes together, gives the works a true sense of purpose. The vastness of the space during I Just Need a Sign pushed me to think about the relationships between the works and to create a coherent journey, where each piece contributes to an overarching narrative. This taught me to see my works as fragments of a language that unfolds in the exhibition space. For my final degree show, for example, I chose to display my paintings on the floor, stuck together, to present them as manipulable objects rather than static works. They became visual sentences, which could be rearranged depending on the space, offering a new interaction with the viewer.
Are there practices among artists of your generation that impress you?
What impresses me is not so much a particular practice but the persistence and endurance of certain artists I observe or know. Being an artist often means working in uncertainty, without immediate recognition or financial security. What I admire is their ability to keep investing in themselves, moving forward, creating, and believing in their work despite these challenges. Maintaining this faith in our practice, even in obscurity, is, for me, the true strength.
What are your projects for the coming months?
I’ve just returned from China, a year that was intense and enriching both artistically and personally. I’ve come back with many ideas, a renewed energy, and a more confident vision. I want to dive back into work quickly and focus more on production. My future projects are not yet fully defined. I wouldn’t rule out exploring other international opportunities. The residency format has suited me well; this kind of mobility is an integral part of what fuels my practice. It’s a bit like a roller coaster: after spending a year on a project that ends, there’s a sense of having to start all over again. But it’s precisely this cycle that fuels creation.
