Emotional Hoarder – The Compulsion of Emotional Memory is a project that extended far beyond the initially planned six months of research, exploration, and creation.
The pandemic and a surprise pregnancy disrupted the timeline, delaying studio time, workshops, appointments, and mentorship meetings. In short, these unforeseen events lengthened the timeframe I had set for myself.
Despite everything, the project became a fertile playground, rich in unexpected discoveries. I navigated between excitement, surprise, doubt, and far too many moments of second-guessing. I found myself so close to the subject matter—completely immersed.
The situation imposed constraints that pushed me to work and play with materials that encouraged spontaneity. In doing so, I found my expressive language and created a foundation of knowledge I could later build upon and play within.

My research-creation process was not limited to exploring mediums or techniques. This path led me to a deeper reflection on jewelry and the object itself. Why is jewelry so essential to my practice? I didn’t expect to ask myself this question.
Yet it proved necessary.

Isn’t jewelry simply sculpture with a function? No. It’s much more than that. Jewelry is the experience of an idea that goes beyond its function. It takes on a completely different meaning when worn.
The artist’s intention—whatever it may be—transforms through the very act of wearing it. Once on the body, its story continues and evolves, far beyond the hands of its creator. In this context, jewelry is neither ornament nor commodity: it is a work of art.
It allows for a deeper dialogue with the viewer or the wearer. It’s rare to have such an intimate contact with an idea—and that’s precisely what draws me to contemporary jewelry.

“These author’s jewels, which tell stories and open up new worlds, take on an extra dimension when they are worn: ‘The wearer is needed to perfect the piece of jewellery, as it were.’”
— Jewellery in Context, Marjan Unger, Arnoldsche Editions

These explorations helped me realize that art jewelry—contemporary or author jewelry—is truly at the core of my practice. In line with this idea of the compulsion of emotional memory, present in both my working methods and the deepening of my research,
I chose to articulate the results through the materials and techniques I explored. Since materials are my primary language, it is through them that I will convey my intentions and outcomes.

Drawing – a Guiding Thread

These drawings, created quickly and without conscious thought, in black and/or white, became the visual engine and guiding thread of my process. They acted as a compass throughout my material explorations.
I had established a ritual: each day began with drawing. In moments of blockages or uncertainty, I returned to them—small sketchbook and black ink pen in hand. The contrasts, textures, the accumulation of lines, and the vibrating strokes nourished what was to come in the studio.

I created over 200 drawings in small notebooks, then moved on to larger formats using acrylic pencils and inks on black paper or cardboard. Through them, I tried—strangely—to understand material.

I saw in them a reflection of my visual and identity-based language. This parallel process allowed me to build a drawing corpus that developed independently while nourishing the direction of the larger project.

Paper and Resins

Paper holds an important place in my practice: it allows me to quickly explore ideas. It’s like a 3D sketch—easy to manipulate, capable of capturing the spontaneity of gesture, much like drawing.

I subjected it to transformations and textures as I would with metal. Rolled through a mill to create bas-reliefs, the paper—black or white—was colored using pigments, graphite, or ink.

I experimented with many types: watercolor paper, cardboard, silk, and others gathered during my scavenging. I played with thickness, tearing, textures, crushing the fibers to reveal their tactile qualities.

I wanted to preserve the integrity of the paper, play with its transparency, maintain its fragility while protecting it. I began with epoxy resin, either transparent or pigmented with acrylics or dyes, which gave a plastic finish.

The resin enhanced the details, revealed shadow and light, and turned some papers into translucent surfaces. But it made the material feel overly synthetic, and I wanted to retain its physical presence and tactile nature.

That’s when I discovered Paraloid B-72, a thermoplastic resin used in museology. Mixed with acetone, it becomes liquid and can be brushed on or used in a bath.
It allowed me to preserve the paper’s appearance while making it waterproof—without losing its texture. This discovery opened new possibilities: I could create forms through layering or with a single sheet, maintaining the paper’s delicacy while making it durable.

 

 

 

 

Steel, Polyester-Nylon Threads, Latex Gloves, and Found Objects

During the pandemic, I took long walks through my neighborhood. Many construction sites were paused, leaving behind an abundance of debris: metals, plastics, and various materials.

 

I began observing these frozen urban landscapes, photographing construction scenes, absorbing their organized chaos. There was a strange poetry in the way materials accumulated, how they were stacked or left behind at random.

As I walked, I picked up objects and materials that caught my eye—because of their shape, texture, or color. Back in the studio, I arranged them on my worktable, letting them guide me while staying mindful of their origin.

Many were wrapped in black plastic, coiled with wires, or made of steel rods and posts emerging from the ground. These elements echoed my drawings—lines, negative space, textures.

I became fascinated with the idea of concealment, in the manner of Christo and Jeanne-Claude. Wrapping a piece of jewelry in latex sometimes gave it a soft and peaceful appearance—but often, a quiet violence emanated from it.
Artist Susan Edgerley once told me there was an almost sensual tension in these pieces. Later, jeweler Nina Janvier made a similar observation.

Rubber, Wires, and Liquid Materials

Liquid rubber is a material I discovered during my final year of jewelry school. Once again, the notion of concealment emerged—hiding a form under a uniform surface to change its meaning.
This material allowed me to retain a certain flexibility in my objects—whether in the wires used or in pieces meant for electroforming, which I wanted to temporarily shield.

Over time, the material became more of a working tool than a central component. It played a technical role in shaping or transformation, but it also deepened my reflection on surface perception, on visibility and invisibility.

 

Electroforming

I had long wanted to explore copper electroforming—a process that blends art and science, allowing copper to deposit onto a conductive surface.
It enables the creation of unique pieces, extremely fine reproductions, or textures impossible to achieve by other means.

Initially, Carole Frève was supposed to teach me the technique. But due to the lockdown, we couldn’t meet. And when in-person meetings became possible again, she was no longer available.
Fortunately, I was able to count on the support of Catalina Montoya and Emily Lewis, two jewelry artists experienced in electroforming. I also consulted several specialized books and numerous online tutorials.

What I aimed to do was bring my drawings into three-dimensional form: to recapture their spontaneity, vibrancy, and nervous line work.
I envisioned copper accumulating in layers—grainy, porous, pitted. I constructed forms with metal and nylon wires, reinforcing and texturing them with glue-coated paper, which allowed for the application of conductive paint.

These shapes resembled my pencil marks, but the final result fell short of my expectations. It was interesting, but nothing more. It wasn’t the answer I was looking for.

Later, I experimented with isolating certain areas to create localized accumulations. The results were intriguing, but I knew I needed to dig deeper.
The process—although imperfect—sparked my curiosity. Even now, I continue to explore it.

 

I now master it well enough to teach it at the École de joaillerie de Montréal in an advanced workshop. Without this project, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to explore electroforming so thoroughly.
Today, it is an integral part of my practice.

Polymer Clay, Beading, and Resin

As I spoke with friends and close ones, the project’s theme sparked deep sharing. Everyone had their own emotional hoards—memories of pivotal moments that still resonated years later.
Some of those events had real impact, others not so much. Yet the same question kept surfacing: why do certain memories cling so tightly, bringing emotions back with such force?

Confidences emerged—secrets, wounds, pain, but also moments of grace, transformation, and fragile beauty. Like me, those I spoke with recognized a complex reservoir of emotion stored in memory.
And we all asked ourselves: why do we hold onto these things? Why do memories become like old boxes of emotional clutter we keep stacked inside ourselves?

These conversations led me to wonder: could someone else’s experience influence my drawing? My exploration of form, of jewelry, of materials?

I interviewed my friend P., whose story focused on their lifelong relationship with their body. Their memories were filled with both joy and shame—particularly around their homosexuality. They shared, without filter, a raw testimony about the complexity of their emotions. It made me want to sculpt by hand—to give their words tactile form.

Polymer clay became the obvious medium: in fleshy tones, whites, greys. I shaped it while thinking about these stories, trying to give them material presence—to hold or release them.

This is when color truly entered the work. Inspired by a faience workshop with ceramist France Goneau, I sculpted fragments that resembled pieces of flesh. I wanted them to feel like bits of skin.

What I appreciate about polymer clay is its versatility: it can be sanded, engraved, polished, pierced, colored with pencils.
To heighten the discomfort, I added glass or semi-precious beads, threaded with acrylic wire like in traditional beading. I also poured colored resin on certain shapes or combined the clay with other materials—nylon, metal cages, silk fibers.

 

 

These pieces, born of listening to others, naturally led me to address my own experience—of embodiment, motherhood, and its unspoken discomforts.
I hadn’t planned on exploring the body or diving into color with this plastic material—but it became an essential expressive channel.

 

Forming, Metal Weaving, and Surface Treatments

In my drawings, lines overlap, accumulate, and thicken. Deep blacks, sometimes washed out, fill oval or squared shapes.
I sought to translate this visual aesthetic into metal.

Using a rolling mill, I created linear, layered textures—sometimes pressing the metal to the point of causing cracks in the silver or copper.

These textured sheets were then formed with forging tools or simply folded onto themselves, creating low-relief accumulations of lines.

 

Some were surface-soldered, then rolled or hammered again to further enrich their texture.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

These surface treatments and forming techniques led to the development of small series. This is how my limited-edition collection ''Les Traces de Désinvoltures'' was born, bringing together several of these processes.

I also drew inspiration from the urban landscapes of my neighborhood, where construction sites were multiplying.

Everywhere, iridescent fences demarcated zones—not pastures, but housing developments, parks, thoroughfares.
Caught in their mesh were bits of plastic, paper, cardboard, ropes—animated by wind, snow, and rain.

I saw in this a form of urban poetry, a metaphor for emotional memory:

What we retain may be pure chance.
Isn’t our emotional structure a kind of net, or cage, upon whose bars fragments of our lives get caught—despite us?

The most striking events lodge themselves there easily. But sometimes, trivial memories also remain stuck, without apparent logic.
And others—however intense, tragic, or luminous—slip away as if they had found an opening. From childhood onward, do we unconsciously build an inner structure to filter what we retain from our own story?

This reflection led me to incorporate the forms of the cage and the basket as recurring shapes in my jewelry and research.
It’s only afterward that I realized how present these forms already were in my early drawings.

Liquid Enamel  

I first encountered Helen Carnac’s work during a visit to Galerie Noel Guyomarc’h in 2014. It was a revelation.
This deeply sensitive artist knows how to work with the texture and properties of her materials.
She applies liquid enamel to steel surfaces, evoking abstract landscapes—on bowls or flat or formed plates.

I had the chance to take an advanced workshop with her, where we experimented with liquid enamel. It was an artistic breakthrough—something opened up for me.
What I understood through her work, and recognized in my own, was an allegory of the human condition.

We are born into chaos. We grow up trying to control our world while also trying to understand it, learning how to navigate life.
The human condition isn’t simple—it’s a cliché, perhaps—but neither is creation. It requires knowing when to intervene with control and when to let go, to allow chance to guide us, to observe, to accept we’re not in control.

What I loved about enamel was that I could paint and draw with it. I found in it qualities similar to watercolor.
I liked layering thin coats of different colored enamel, then sanding them with diamond pads to create powdery, erased textures.

India ink combined with enamel produced very satisfying effects.

 

Here’s an example of a technique I developed:
• After a first firing with white enamel, I would sand the surface.
• Using dried plants dipped in India ink, I printed the surface.
• Once dry, I covered it with a layer of transparent liquid enamel.
• Before the final firing, I would engrave directly into the dry enamel.

After firing, the engraved areas turned black—as if drawn in ink. The depth and sensitivity of this approach made you forget it was enamel at all.

Traditionally, one is expected to thoroughly clean copper before applying enamel. But for my Obstacles series—small copper boxes—I deliberately skipped this step.

I wanted to see how a lack of preparation would affect the surface. Letting chance lead the visual outcome revealed unexpected colors: greens, verdigris, orange, browns, blacks...
These tones enhanced the quiet sadness housed in those little boxes.

Boxes filled with memory, carried within us. Old things, without real function, but that we keep.

Thanks to this grant, I was able to push my exploration of liquid enamel further within an artistic context. I hope to continue this research in my future pieces and jewelry.

 

A heartfelt thank you to Noel Guyomarc'h, Susan Edgerley, and the Conseil des arts et des lettres du Québec for their invaluable support, without which none of these explorations and achievements would have been possible.

 

 

 

List of References Consulted

- Jewellery in Context, Marjan Unger, Arnoldsche Editions
- Copper Electroforming: An In-Depth Look into Copper Electroforming at Home, David        Hanson (2021)
- Various tutorials, including: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmYfnUTV57g