What’s the story behind your latest song/album?
“Sur Ses Chemins” began with a simple question: can music reconcile paradoxes that words alone cannot? Not through explanation, but through feeling. The song emerged from that space where poetry and sound meet—where you stop trying to understand and simply allow yourself to experience. The opening line, “Je marche sur ses chemins que tu ne sais pas” (I walk on his paths that you do not know), is an invitation. It’s saying: there are invisible dimensions within us all, territories of the heart and soul that can’t be mapped with logic. For 5 minutes and 23 seconds, I wanted to create a soundscape that feels like walking through those inner landscapes—misty forests at dawn, dizzying precipices, oceans reflecting starlight. The instrumentation carries its own story. The djembé—this ancient West African drum—became the heartbeat of the quest. Its pulse is primal, almost ritualistic. When paired with the warmth of acoustic guitar, something alchemical happens. It’s earthy yet transcendent, grounded yet reaching toward something infinite. What moves me most is the final line: “Ses yeux étaient couleur océan” (His eyes were ocean-colored). This phrase carries a double truth—it speaks of the Ocean Goddess herself, this primordial and infinite force, but also of a real woman, a muse who embodies that same divine essence. As if the sacred chose to take flesh in a gaze. The song suggests that this entire outward journey was perhaps a quest to find this union of divine and human, of infinity and the instant, in the eyes of a single person.
How has your creative process evolved over the years?
In the beginning, I would capture emotions as they came—pure, unfiltered, spontaneous. There was beauty in that rawness, but also a certain chaos. Songs would emerge like dreams: vivid, powerful, but sometimes structurally fragmented. The evolution has been learning to honor both the lightning bolt and the architecture. Now, I give myself space to dream freely, but I’ve also developed ways to hold those dreams intact—to translate them from fleeting emotional states into something others can enter and experience fully. For “Sur Ses Chemins,” this meant creating a visual universe that extends the music beyond sound. I see each song as the center of a constellation—music, yes, but also images, movement, light. The Spotify Canvas, for instance, isn’t decoration. It’s the music breathing visually, cosmic veils and waves of light synchronized with the song’s undulations. When you watch it, you’re not just seeing the music—you’re experiencing another dimension of the same journey. This approach has freed me. I’m no longer constrained by thinking music lives only in the ears. It can live in the eyes, in the body, in spaces between breath and heartbeat. The creative process has become more like building doorways into worlds rather than just writing songs.
Is there a specific moment in your career that felt like a turning point?
The turning point came when I stopped treating music and image as separate art forms and started seeing them as conversations—two languages speaking the same truth. I’d always had these expansive visions. Not just sonic, but visual, narrative, immersive. For a long time, I thought executing them was impossible without resources I didn’t have. I felt trapped between the vision and the reality. Then something shifted. I realized the limitations I had—the lack of a full band, no access to expensive video production, no industry machinery behind me—those weren’t obstacles. They were invitations to find my own voice, my own visual language. The first time I saw the complete visual world for “Sur Ses Chemins” come alive—the misty forests, the luminous paths appearing, the spiral descent into crystal cathedrals—I knew I’d discovered something deeper than a workaround. I’d found a new way of creating that was uniquely mine. That moment freed me from wondering about “the right way.” Instead, it became about creative tension—the drive to go further, to transcend, to intentionally bring depth through multi-layered harmonies woven into the musical fabric. I could honor the organic warmth of acoustic folk—the djembé’s ritual pulse, the guitar’s wooden intimacy—while creating visual worlds that amplified the emotional journey. The craft didn’t dilute the authenticity; it revealed dimensions I’d always felt but couldn’t fully express before. That synthesis—where you can’t tell where the soul ends and the craft begins—that’s when everything changed.
What’s one misconception people have about being a musician?
The biggest misconception? That if you have enough passion and talent, the art will just flow and the audience will naturally find you. Reality is much more layered. Being an independent musician today means wearing many hats—you’re composer, performer, visual artist, storyteller, curator of your own world. The romantic myth of the “pure artist” who only creates while someone else handles everything? That exists for maybe 1% of musicians. For the rest of us, the art is inseparable from the work of bringing it into the world. People are also surprised when I talk about the depth of craft involved. Creating a complete universe around a song—the visual world, the narrative arc, the way images breathe with the music—requires not just inspiration but meticulous attention to detail. The Canvas for “Sur Ses Chemins,” with its cosmic veils and synchronized light patterns, took as much care as the song itself. Another myth: stability. The reality is constant movement between creation, sharing, adapting, learning. But for those of us who can’t imagine doing anything else, that instability becomes part of the adventure. The misconception I most want to challenge is that using contemporary creative tools makes art “less authentic.” When someone experiences “Sur Ses Chemins”—the warmth of the acoustic guitar, the primal pulse of the djembé, the emotional weight in the voice—none of that becomes less real because the accompanying visuals were created through modern methods. Authenticity lives in the intention, the vulnerability, the truth being channeled. The heart of the song—its truth—that’s what matters. The methods are just doorways.
Who or what has been inspiring your music lately?
Lately, I’m fascinated by the conversation between ancient wisdom and contemporary expression—how eternal truths keep finding new forms to inhabit. Musically, I’m drawn to artists who understand restraint. Who know that sometimes the most powerful moment is the silence between notes, the breath before the next phrase. Acoustic folk musicians who can make you feel an entire cosmos in a simple chord progression. That’s the lineage “Sur Ses Chemins” comes from—stripped-back production that lets emotion breathe without artifice. Visually, I’m inspired by sacred geometry—the patterns that repeat across all scales of existence. The spiral of galaxies mirroring the unfurling of ferns. In the visual world I created for “Sur Ses Chemins,” you see this: light revealing eternal pathways, the protagonist centered in a living mandala, cosmic temples with figures at the heart of universal geometry. These aren’t random images—they’re the visual language of timeless transformation. Philosophically, I’m inspired by the mystery itself. The more I create, the less I claim to understand. There’s something beautiful about making art that asks questions rather than providing answers. About creating spaces where listeners find meanings I never consciously intended. Someone recently told me that watching the visual sequence—where musical notes escape as luminous particles—made them cry because it captured their experience of finding their voice after years of silence. I didn’t plan that specific interpretation, but the art held space for it. That co-creation between artist and audience? That’s endlessly inspiring.
Can you share a memorable or unexpected moment from a live performance?
Most of my recent work has been in creating immersive visual worlds that complement the music. But there was one intimate acoustic session in a small venue, maybe 30 people, where something profound happened. I was performing “Sur Ses Chemins,” and there’s this moment midway where I hold a long note on “vers l’infini” (toward infinity). That night, my voice cracked—not technically failing, but breaking in that raw way that happens when emotion overwhelms technique. For a split second, I felt that performer’s panic: “I messed up.” But instead of awkward silence, there was this collective intake of breath from the audience. When I looked up, people had tears streaming down their faces. After the show, multiple people told me that that moment—the crack in my voice—was when the song truly reached them. One person said, “That’s when I knew you weren’t just performing. You were living it.” It shattered something I’d believed: that audiences want perfection. They don’t. They want truth. They want to witness a human being experiencing something real, even—especially—when it means losing control for a moment. Since then, I’ve stopped hiding those moments. If my voice breaks during “Chante…” (Sing…), if I need to pause to breathe through the emotion of “Ses yeux étaient couleur océan” (His eyes were ocean-colored), if the djembé rhythm gets a bit wild and untamed—I let it. Because that’s where the truth lives, in those unguarded moments that no amount of rehearsal can manufacture. Perfection is sterile. Vulnerability connects.
How do you handle creative blocks or self-doubt?
Creative blocks used to terrify me. I’d interpret them as evidence that I wasn’t a “real” artist, that the well had run dry. Now I understand them as a natural part of the creative cycle—like winter before spring. When I hit a block, my first move is actually not to push through it. I’ve learned that forcing creativity is like trying to fall asleep by willing yourself to sleep—the effort itself becomes the obstacle. Instead, I shift to a different mode: I become a collector rather than a creator. I’ll spend time absorbing instead of producing—reading poetry, walking in nature, listening to music completely outside my genre, watching films, having long conversations about ideas that fascinate me. I’m filling the well, trusting that when it’s full, creation will flow naturally again. For self-doubt—and let me be clear, it never fully goes away—I’ve developed what I call “evidence files.” These are folders (both digital and physical) where I keep every piece of positive feedback, every message from someone whose life was touched by the music, every small victory. When the doubt gets loud and tells me I’m a fraud or that my work doesn’t matter, I read these. Not to feed my ego, but to remind myself of the objective reality: the work has connected, it has mattered, regardless of what my inner critic is currently screaming. I’ve also learned to distinguish between productive self-doubt and toxic self-doubt. Productive doubt asks, “How can I make this better?” It’s curious and constructive. Toxic doubt says, “You’re not good enough. Give up.” That voice? I’ve learned to recognize it as fear, not truth. I acknowledge it—”Thanks for trying to protect me from failure”—and then I do the work anyway. And honestly? Sometimes I just sit with the discomfort. Not everything needs to be fixed or optimized. Sometimes a creative block is your psyche telling you to rest, to process, to integrate what you’ve learned before moving forward. I’ve stopped seeing these periods as problems to solve and started seeing them as necessary chapters in the creative story.
If you could collaborate with any artist, living or dead, who would it be and why?
If I could collaborate with anyone, living or dead, it would be Leonard Cohen—not at the peak of his fame, but the Leonard Cohen of his later years, when his voice had deepened into that gravelly, prophetic instrument that sounded like the earth itself was speaking. Why Cohen? Because he understood something fundamental about art that I’m still learning: that you don’t have to choose between the sacred and the sensual, between the intellectual and the emotional, between darkness and light. His work lived in the tensions between these supposed opposites, and in doing so, revealed them as false dichotomies. I’d want to write with him—sit in a room with acoustic guitars and just explore the intersection of the mystical and the mundane. How do you write about spiritual hunger using the language of physical desire? How do you make ancient religious imagery feel contemporary and urgent? How do you craft a lyric that works on multiple levels simultaneously—surface narrative, symbolic meaning, sonic texture? But beyond the craft, I’d want to learn from his presence. Cohen had this quality of deep listening, of being fully present with whatever was in front of him. There are videos of him in interviews where he’ll pause for 30 seconds before answering a question, not because he’s struggling to find words, but because he’s genuinely considering the truth of what he’s being asked. In our age of constant content and instant responses, that kind of deliberate, unhurried attention feels revolutionary. I think a collaboration with Cohen would be less about creating a hit song and more about apprenticing in a particular way of being an artist—one where you trust the slow work of depth over the quick wins of surface appeal. Where you’re willing to spend years on a single verse if that’s what it takes to get it true. And selfishly, I’d love to hear that voice of his blend with my sound—imagining those rugged, time-worn tones interweaving with the acoustic folk textures I create. It would be like having a conversation between old wisdom and new exploration, and I think something beautiful and surprising would emerge from that dialogue.
What’s a piece of advice you wish you had received earlier in your career?
The advice I wish I’d received earlier—and truly internalized—is this: “Your constraints are your signature.” For years, I spent so much energy wishing I had more: more budget, more equipment, more connections, more formal training, more time. I looked at what I couldn’t do and saw only limitations. I thought that once I had all the “right” resources, then I could make the art I was meant to create. But here’s the truth I learned too late: the limitations you have right now are precisely what will make your work distinctive. Every constraint forces you to make unique choices, to find workarounds that no one else would think of because they’re specific to your particular situation. I couldn’t afford a full band, so I learned to create rich sonic landscapes with just acoustic instruments and careful layering. I didn’t have access to expensive video production, so I developed my own approach to creating visual worlds that became my signature aesthetic. I didn’t have industry connections, so I built the skills to be independent—which ultimately became a philosophical stance as much as a practical one. If I’d had unlimited resources from the start, I probably would have made generic, overproduced music that sounded like everything else. My limitations forced me to develop a voice that’s unmistakably mine. The corollary to this: start before you’re ready. I wasted years “preparing” to launch my music career—taking courses, perfecting demos, waiting for the “right moment.” What I didn’t realize is that you learn more from putting out imperfect work and responding to real feedback than you ever will from theoretical preparation. Your first songs won’t be your best songs. Your early visuals won’t be your most polished. That’s not just okay—it’s necessary. Each piece you release is a stepping stone, and you can’t get to stone #50 without placing stone #1. So my advice to any artist reading this: look at what you have right now—however limited—and ask, “What can only I make with these specific constraints?” That’s where your unique voice lives. Not in the abundance you don’t have, but in the scarcity you’re working with right now.
What’s next for you—any exciting projects or goals on the horizon?
There’s so much on the horizon that I actively resist doing everything at once. Depth over breadth, always. Immediately: I’m completing the full visual journey for “Sur Ses Chemins”—bringing the entire world of the song to life through a complete cinematic experience. This isn’t just about having pretty visuals. It’s about proving that an independent artist can create emotionally resonant, immersive storytelling that rivals anything made with massive budgets. And more importantly, sharing that process so other artists know it’s possible. Musically: I’m working on an EP called “Territoires de l’Intuition” (Territories of Intuition). “Sur Ses Chemins” explores the walk—the active seeking. The next pieces will explore arrival, dark nights of doubt, the unexpected grace of surrender. I’m thinking of it less as a traditional album and more as a meditation cycle. Something people could move through as a contemplative practice, not just entertainment. Visually: I want each song to have its own complete universe—not just a music video, but an entire visual language that extends the emotional journey. Imagine environments that breathe with the music, where light and form respond to rhythm and melody. Philosophically: I want to contribute to the conversation about what art can be in this moment. There’s so much noise—people afraid of change, others rushing to embrace everything new without discernment. I want to model a middle path: honoring tradition while remaining open to new forms of expression. Creating work that’s both ancient and contemporary. Long-term dream: Immersive, multi-sensory experiences that combine music, visuals, and physical space. Imagine walking through an installation where the environment responds to “Sur Ses Chemins”—light patterns synchronized with the djembé pulse, projections shifting with the guitar’s progressions, maybe even scent or temperature changes. Turning the internal spiritual journey into something you can physically inhabit. But honestly? The most important goal is staying true. Resisting pressure to be more commercial, more trendy, more anything other than authentic. If I can create art that helps even one person feel less alone in their journey, that’s success. The horizon is wide open. For the first time, that feels like possibility, not pressure.