Dare to be Eternal
An Evening in Paris with Artist Olivier Urman
Feb 16, 2025
Hugo Hoppmann, Sarah Discours
Stepping into Olivier’s home atelier you enter a universe where elegance meets the raw and unconventional. Here, every detail is intentional, and every moment is infused with pleasure. Olivier’s dojo is a sanctuary for creativity, a space where even mundanity becomes an act of artistry.
Classical music plays in the background. The table is elegantly set, with a candelabra at its center, saucisson, and a freshly baked Basque cake, ready to be sliced paper-thin. As is tradition when you visit Olivier’s home, you’re invited to pick your own glass from his impressive collection of thrifted treasures. We talked with him about his approach to creativity and life, how he balances spontaneity and structure in his work, and his exploration of the tension between permanence and impermanence.
Sarah & Hugo: You’re one of the best hosts we know…
Olivier: I believe that’s how life should be lived! Even in professional relationships, it’s important to make them more enjoyable. I probably got that from my father—whenever the postman or the plumber came by, he would offer them champagne. Of course, it was mostly because he wanted someone to share a glass with. I grew up watching that, and it became a habit of mine too. It’s just so much nicer that way.
How do you organise your days?
I never know what I’m going to do when I wake up. It depends on my mood, my mental state, how I’m feeling physically—whether I’m wide awake or not, or whether I feel like laughing. Then I have a coffee, take stock, review what I worked on the day before, and make quick decisions from there. I don’t have a set morning routine. Some days, I might decide to do nothing at all and just cook or clean instead. For me, everything has to be connected to the pleasure of doing it. Even boring tasks can be enjoyable if the timing feels right.
“I don’t have a set morning routine. Some days, I might decide to do nothing at all and just cook or clean instead. For me, everything has to be connected to the pleasure of doing it. Even boring tasks can be enjoyable if the timing feels right.”
Sometimes, I don’t start working until eight in the evening, because I’ve been thinking about things all day. You can’t work constantly, especially when you work for yourself, where there are no limits—you could go on endlessly. It’s important to pause, take a breath, and gain some distance from what you’re doing. I also have to stop every fifteen minutes while working. I can’t stay on one task for too long or my mind feels like it’s going to explode. I get too excited and need frequent breaks. Taking a step back regularly is crucial: it makes all the difference.
Was it always like this for you?
Yes, I’ve always worked that way. Ever since I was a kid, drawing felt like a kind of ceremony. Later, I studied to become a dentist, though I never practiced—that was thirty years ago. In dentistry, you learn a strict protocol, a sequence of steps. Before starting, you have to prepare all your tools in the order they’ll be used, and everything must be ready because you can’t go searching for something in the middle of an operation. That mindset stayed with me, and now I sometimes lose my mind if I can’t find my hammer—where it’s supposed to be. I have a shelf with fifteen hammers, and yet sometimes there’s not a single one left because I’ve scattered them all over! But it’s normal to be messy during creative moments.
For three years, my studio was completely dusty because my work took priority over everything else. One quirk I have is that I hate getting dressed in the morning. So, I usually work in a robe and slippers. But then I get resin on myself and think, “Damn!” I end up getting dressed, and before I know it, it’s already four in the afternoon. Honestly, changing clothes feels pointless to me.
So when you’re working, you’re in the zone easily…
I’m pretty much always there anyway! It’s a permanent state of mind for me. It’s like someone climbing a mountain—they might take a break for three days, but they know they’ll have to continue climbing eventually, whether that’s in three days, two months, or a year. That’s how I approach my work—it’s a continuous journey, a commitment, a decision. It’s a fully conscious choice. You can have moments of pause, but the goal is always present.
“Even in professional relationships, it’s important to make them more enjoyable. My father taught me that. Whenever the postman or the plumber came by, he’d offer them champagne — not just for them, but because he wanted someone to share a glass with. It’s just so much nicer that way.”
Is there anything you need in order to work?
I like to be alone. I’ve never had assistants, I don’t enjoy giving orders or directions. Plus, it stifles improvisation. When you’re working with a material, an idea often emerges. Solitude is crucial for me—it allows me to tap into that source. Sometimes, I might just decide to stop and do nothing, maybe open a bottle of wine and enjoy my afternoon. I’m not into radicalism.
How did the development of the Surpressions started?
All my best ideas come spontaneously when I wake up because the brain is constantly working, even while you’re asleep. It’s like I receive a stream of ideas first thing in the morning. That’s how the Surpressions came about—they align perfectly with what I’ve done before, but I hadn’t thought of them until one morning when I realised, “but at last I can do again what I'm doing on the board”. It’s precisely during the quiet hours of the night that the brain can organise itself and come up with constructive ideas, rather than being caught up in the hustle and bustle of the day.
Sometimes, I dive straight into work. For instance with the sculpture I installed in front of the Palais de Tokyo. Koons had planned to place a bouquet of tulips in front of the Musée d’Art Moderne, and when I heard that, I respect Koons, but it sparked an immediate reaction in me — it was 6 a.m., and I started to work directly.
This brings up the question: do we exist, or does the world shape us? When we talk about influencers, we’re talking about people who have an impact on others. We’re influenced by everything we see and hear, and our actions and reactions reflect that.
“For me, everything has to be connected to the pleasure of doing it. Even boring tasks can be enjoyable if the timing feels right.”
In what way do you think the Surpressions are linked to your previous work?
To me, it’s obvious: I can feel it because I’ve experienced something similar before — a physiological, almost psychic sensation that tells me, “This is it.” When I started my project to challenge the end of things, I knew it was going to be the focus of my life. I felt certain and committed to it, and with the Surpressions, I felt the same — it’s a long-term commitment because it incorporates everything I’ve done before. It’s like I’m using my own vocabulary, my alphabet; everything feels intuitive now, and there’s a clarity in the continuity leading up to the Surpressions.
I’m engaged in a battle against the end of things. It’s not about stopping time, which would mean the collapse of matter, the end of history. It’s impossible to stop time. I don’t want to prevent death or deny that it will happen, but I do want to prevent the end of things, specifically to prevent love from fading away. I’ve always been deeply saddened to see happiness come to an end. For example, even when enjoying a beer, I want to extend that pleasure as much as possible. I realise that after having studied in detail what a work of art is made up of, i.e. the gaze, the surface, the thickness, the crossing we make with our gaze, the sequence of works we look at... after having analysed this in every sense, I realised that it’s not the object itself that’s flawed, but rather the representation of it in art.
Representation is not just presentation. Everything goes out of fashion, everything ends up discarded. Initially, things are loved, then they are forgotten. I told myself that this kind of representation is what needs to be destroyed. At its core, there’s the essence of the object. I’m talking about “chevalité,” a philosophical term that refers to all horses that have ever existed, exist, or will exist. So, when I take an object and strip away its plasticity—like with this silver transverse flute, for example—I’m focusing on preserving its essence, its “chevalité,” meaning all the flutes that have existed, exist, and will exist.
Returning to the metaphor of climbing a mountain, I climbed and climbed until I reached the peak, only to feel a sense of deflation. This feeling of contentment after years of internal struggle lasted almost ten years. After completing a series of Matières Uniques, about fifty in total, I stopped because I felt everything had been said. I realised something was terribly wrong; I had spent my life fighting against the end of things, and yet I felt like my work was complete — impossible. When the Surpressions came to me, I made them atomic; I searched for life inside, reducing objects to powder. Now, I do it daily, like baking bread.
I would love to be turned into a Surpression when I die.
I almost did it with a dog of a friend! I do it with objects, furniture, because it's also an extension of the body. I don't really differentiate between furniture and sculpture.
Could this be your last work?
I think so, because this is the first one. Everything I’ve done before are just sketches for the Surpressions. It’s not the last; it’s the first. The plushies, for example, were about representing the adult world through a child’s perspective. I observed children and their relationship with plushies—they were so significant, it’s impossible to forget them. But with plushies, people tended to find them amusing. I don’t aim to create humour; I want to prevent things from coming to an end. That slight humour detracts from those goals. Through these failures, I realised my work wasn’t successful, and I had to start over with different methods. Today, I feel I’m engaged in a complete work. I know what I’m doing.
It’s great that you can recognise when something is right, it’s here, because there are people who can doubt themselves all their lives. What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever received?
In David Lynch’s Dune there is a line spoken by a witch that’s incredibly powerful: “I vowed never to regret my decision”. This is really important to me. Because when we make decisions, we can have deep doubts. And that’s when you have to say, yes, but I vowed never to regret this decision. If you don’t, you can fall into depression, start questioning yourself, thinking, “I shouldn’t have done that,” “Why did I do that?” and get lost.
When I heard that line, it really resonated with me. It’s been the best piece of advice I’ve received in my life because over thirty years, you go through periods of intense doubt, people don’t understand what you’re doing, you’re influenced, and they ask, “Why don’t you do this?” You can easily get lost. I think that’s the most powerful advice I’ve heard because it directly addresses doubt, which is the most difficult place to be. You shouldn’t regret committing to something, even if you don’t know how it will turn out.
That’s a powerful statement everyone could benefit from. What does death mean to you, and why does this subject interest you?
(At this point of the evening we had already started drinking red wine to go with the cake and saucisson…)
I don’t know if I’m really talking about death. I’m alive, and I’m talking to the living. I’ve written a text called Messe Des Morts Pour Agnostique (Mass Of The Dead For Agnostics) for people who don’t believe in anything and are confronted with death, and this text is significant in my work because it complements my visual art. On the other hand, I think about death all the time!
People often think that moving forward is a simple gesture. No, it’s about constantly avoiding going right or left, not dying on either side. That’s how I see it; death is ever-present. You have to navigate around it. To live, you have to continuously avoid dying.
“To live in the present, you must forget who you were. Memories alter and modify the now—they compare, classify, and activate nostalgia or regret. To be present, you have to forget everything, let go of the past, and experience each moment as if for the first time.”
What does being present mean to you?
Da sein. Being there in the moment, in the place where you are, not elsewhere. You're here, with the people who are here, and life is right here. It's not with other people who might exist. It's the matter in front of you, that's the present.
Quand on parle de vivre les choses au présent, on parle d’existence, donc d’exister maintenant. Évidemment, on oppose le passé et le futur au moment présent. Si l’on est dans le temps présent, c’est qu’on n’est évidemment ni dans le futur — ce qui reste impossible — ni dans le passé, d’où pourtant nous venons et dont nous sommes le produit.
On ne peut pas physiquement être et avoir été, mais on peut se demander s’il reste quelque chose du passé à l’intérieur de nous, dans le présent. Certains aiment à penser qu’ils n’ont pas changé avec le temps, qu’ils sont restés les mêmes, avec leurs traits de caractère et certaines spécificités qui demeurent toujours là en évidence dans le déroulement de leur vie. Cela laisserait entendre qu’on peut être et avoir été.
À mon avis, cet adage est souvent mal compris, et je pense que, pour être présent, il faut oublier qui on était.
On ne peut pas être dans le présent avec une quantité de passé en soi.
On ne peut pas être dans le présent avec des souvenirs.
Les souvenirs altèrent et modifient le présent : on compare, on classe, ou on utilise des références qui peuvent être fausses, incomplètes, fantasmées. Ces souvenirs activent la nostalgie, le remords, le regret.
Par exemple, vous ne pourriez pas découvrir un paysage fantastique comme si c’était la première fois — donc au présent — si vous le connaissez depuis longtemps. Alors, pour vivre au présent, si vous voulez vivre au présent, il faut vivre pour la première fois : sans souvenirs, sans références, sans altérations.
Dans la proposition « on ne peut pas être et avoir été », l’oubli est une condition obligatoire pour être au présent, pour découvrir et jouir de l’instant. Il faut oublier. Être présent, c’est oublier. Oublier tout. Oublier le passé.
You are truly Present. Your work, the way you talk, and how you live – it's all very much alive. Thank you, Olivier!
✶ Special Thanks to Maryam De Sarre
Key Take-Away's:
1. Embracing Spontaneity and Pleasure in Daily Life:
Olivier emphasises the importance of spontaneity, allowing his mood and physical state to guide his daily activities. He believes that even mundane tasks can be enjoyable when approached at the right moment.
2. Balancing Structure with Flexibility:
Drawing from his background in dentistry, Olivier maintains a structured approach to his work, preparing tools methodically. However, he also values flexibility, acknowledging that creative moments can be messy and require frequent breaks to maintain focus.
3. Solitude as a Catalyst for Creativity:
Preferring to work alone without assistants, Olivier finds that solitude fosters improvisation and allows ideas to emerge organically during the creative process.
4. The Concept of ‘Surpressions’:
Olivier introduces ‘Surpressions,’ a project aimed at challenging the end of things by preserving the essence of objects. This endeavor reflects his commitment to preventing the fading of love and happiness, striving to extend the pleasure derived from experiences.
5. Living in the Present by Letting Go of the Past:
To truly experience the present, Olivier advocates for releasing past memories and references. He suggests that memories can alter the present by inducing nostalgia or regret, and that embracing each moment as if for the first time is essential for genuine presence.
