Jérôme "Trëz" Oudot has always drawn. Not as a choice, but as a continuation, a way of giving form to the visions that surface and insist on becoming real. Working across drawing, painting, and digital media in a practice that treats each medium as an extension of the others, Trëz is an artist fundamentally interested in what happens when control begins to crack: when a line is both precise and trembling, when a form seems constructed and dissolving at the same time. That unstable in-between space between discipline and instinct, between the conscious and the unconscious, is not a problem to be solved but the very territory the work inhabits.

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How do you reconcile the tension between raw, innate creativity and the discipline required to master your craft?

I don't seek to resolve this tension, on the contrary, I cultivate it. It's at the very heart of my work. For me, creation is born precisely from this collision between two forces that, on the surface, might seem opposed. On one hand, something raw, instinctive, almost animalistic, and on the other, a rigor, a precise and technical construction linked to learning and practice. It's in this space of friction that a kind of revelation occurs for me.

I think it's fundamental, initially, to go through academic training. To understand the basics of drawing, composition, light, the body, the perspective... But at a certain point, these rules must be set aside. Otherwise, they become constraints. Artistic identity can only emerge when one accepts to break free from this framework. What interests me is precisely this moment when control begins to crack. When I work, I might start with an intention, a structure, an idea, but very quickly, I try to let go. This letting go isn't an abandonment of knowledge; it's more a way of integrating it deeply, to the point where it becomes instinctive. All that academic background then resurfaces unconsciously, without me needing to actively think about it.

The important thing is then to sense when these two aspects find a balance. Internal tensions emerge, a line can be both controlled and trembling, a form can seem constructed while simultaneously disintegrating. This fragile balance takes on paramount importance in my work. Ultimately, I would say that I don't choose between discipline and instinct. I seek to make them coexist, to create a dialogue between them. Experience allows me to structure, but it's the impulse that gives life. A work that is too controlled becomes cold, a work that is too instinctive can become illegible. What matters to me is this in-between space, this unstable point of equilibrium where something profoundly human can appear.

Does spirituality or a connection to something larger than yourself influence your creative process?

Yes, very clearly. But it's not spirituality in the dogmatic or religious sense. It's something more diffuse, more internal, almost difficult to name. It primarily involves the notion of the unconscious, which is central to my practice. I think that what we consciously believe ourselves to be represents only a very small part of who we truly are. Hidden within our unconscious parts is the greater part of ourselves, and the further I go in life, the more I realize how little I know myself and how much there is left for me to discover and understand. So when I work, I try to place myself in a particular state, a state where rational control diminishes. It's not a total disappearance of consciousness, but rather a kind of shift. By letting go, I make myself available to something that is still me, but that I don't truly know. It's as if I become an intermediary, a channel through which certain forms, certain intentions, certain images can emerge freely, outside the prism of control.

This process gives me the feeling of accessing a broader version of myself, a kind of transcendence of who I believe myself to be. A version that isn't limited to what I know, to what I think I've mastered. There are things that appear in my work that I don't immediately understand. They take on meaning later, or sometimes through the eyes of others. That's where I perceive this "greater" dimension. I think that creation is a way of exploring these invisible realms. A kind of dive into the deep strata of being. And in these depths, we don't just find something personal. We also touch upon forms, symbols, and emotions that are universal. Perhaps that's where this spiritual dimension resides: in this ability to connect the intimate to something more collective, more primal.

So I'm not trying to illustrate spirituality, but I think it permeates my work. It manifests itself in tensions, in metamorphoses, in these bodies that seem simultaneously to be under construction and dissolving. As if each work were an attempt to know myself better. Each brushstroke, each pencil stroke is another step toward myself. And once held up to the gaze of others, the work, in its capacity as a mirror, will speak to the other and reveal to them many things that concern them.

Do you believe an artist's passion is something destined or a conscious choice?

For me, it wasn't a choice. It came to me as something obvious, almost a vital necessity. I've always drawn since childhood. It was instinctive, automatic. I never questioned why I did it, or even if it was important. It was simply there. I spent a lot of time daydreaming, imagining shapes, characters, situations. And quite naturally, drawing became the way to give these visions form. It wasn't a conscious decision, it was a continuation. I spent a lot of time on it, and I loved it. Over time, this practice took up more and more space in my life. It became a tool for understanding the world, but also for understanding myself. Through it, I found a language. A language I couldn't replace with words.

I think that for some people, art can be a choice, a direction. But in my case, it's truly a need. I'm not talking about creating for the sake of creating, there are plenty of things I wouldn't enjoy creating and I wouldn't find pleasure in doing so. The visions that arise in my mind impose themselves upon me, like powerful waves pushing me forward to bring them into the physical world. It's a deep, vibrant impulse that drives me to create. However, if it's a process imposed by a project, a goal to achieve, then creation becomes much more laborious.

That's why professionalizing my creative process isn't something I'm comfortable with. It's very difficult for me to create for commissions, for example, so I do very little of it. The more constraints and external interference there are, the more the process becomes blocked for me, and the pleasure fades. So, the path isn't easy. Being an artist involves decisions, sacrifices, and moments of doubt. But passion isn't the result of these decisions. It comes first. It conditions everything else. So I would say that artistic practice can be structured, constructed, and consciously directed. But the need to create itself isn't. It's deeply rooted, almost visceral. And it's undoubtedly this dimension that makes this path both demanding and essential.

What do you think is the most meaningful role an artist plays in society today?

I believe the role of the artist today is more essential than ever, even if, paradoxically, it's often relegated to the background. We live in an era marked by a kind of saturation, disillusionment, and decline. Extremism of all kinds is resurfacing, the future is uncertain and each day brings its share of overwhelming news. In this context, art should be a priority, as should education and ecological awareness... but the priority seems to be given to the pursuit of profit and conquest.

The artist, in my opinion, is a revealer. Someone who illuminates what is often invisible or what we don't want to see. This can include social tensions, inner questioning and human contradictions. Art doesn't necessarily provide answers, but it poses questions. And these questions are necessary. I also believe that artists can be awakeners. They have this ability to provoke emotion, awareness, and a shift in perspective. A work of art can be unsettling, disturbing, soothing, thought-provoking. It can create a break in the flow of daily life, a moment of suspension. Art invites us to escape, to innovate, to transcend... It's one of the pillars of a well-functioning human world.

In a society that tends toward standardization, simplification and rationalization, art reintroduces movement and life. It reminds us that humanity is not defined by functions, numbers, or logic. Within us lie shadows, contradictions, dreams, and fears. And art gives form to all of this. I sincerely believe that a society that neglects art impoverishes itself. Not only culturally, but also humanly. Art contributes to the development of sensitivity, the capacity to feel, to understand others. That said, I don't wish to position myself as a lecturer, I see myself more as an observer.

My role is not to impose a vision, but to open the space to another point of view; the viewer can then make of it what they wish. In this sense, art is a necessity for maintaining a form of balance, for preserving a profoundly human dimension in a world that tends to forget it.

How important is it for viewers to understand the intended message of your work? Does ambiguity add value, or do you seek clarity in your expression?

The precise understanding of a message is not, for me, an end in itself; quite the contrary. Of course, when I create, I start with something very personal, with intentions, emotions and ideas. But once the work takes shape, everything evolves with this call to let go and when it leaves my workspace, it no longer belongs entirely to me. It enters into a relationship with the viewer and that's where something new and profoundly interesting happens. Ambiguity is essential in my work. I see it not as vagueness or a weakness, but as an open space. A space in which everyone can project their own experiences, their own memories. If I were to try to impose a single interpretation, I would close off this space, I would limit the scope of the work. In fact, I often think that the titles I give my pieces can be superfluous and risk unduly influencing the interpretation of the work.

What interests me deeply is what the work will awaken in the viewer. What emotion will it evoke, what image will it conjure, what memory will it rekindle? I sincerely believe that a work of art on a wall tells a deeply personal story to each viewer and, through the mirror effect mentioned earlier, reveals connections between that person and myself. The other becomes a reflection and my work acts as a projection surface. What the viewer perceives speaks of them, but also of me. There is an encounter between two subjectivities. I have often been surprised by the interpretations shared with me. Things I hadn't consciously considered appear in the viewer's eyes, and yet, they resonate with me as well. As if the work contained much more than what I had placed there, but also things inscribed within me, without a doubt. Therefore, I'm not seeking absolute clarity. Rather, I'm seeking emotional truth. If a work is sincere, if it's imbued with a genuine need, then it will find resonance, even if it's multiple, sometimes contradictory.

Ambiguity also allows for a degree of mystery, and this mystery is precious. To explain everything, to make everything immediately legible, would be to deprive the work of its depth. I like cryptic things, possessing multiple layers of interpretation, like dreams. The idea that some things remain unresolved, that they continue to work internally, even after encountering the work.

How has your artistic style transformed over the years? Are there specific influences, experiments, or moments that marked a turning point?

My work has transformed gradually, almost organically, rather than through abrupt breaks. I don't feel I've truly changed direction, but looking back, the evolution is clearly visible. One of the major elements of this evolution is the exploration of different mediums. Drawing has always been central for me. It's the starting point, the foundation. But very quickly, I felt the need to go further, to broaden the scope of possibilities. I pursued art studies in which digital tools played a dominant role, and I experimented extensively with them.

Painting brought me a more physical, more material dimension, with this notion of layers, accumulation, and surface transformation. Then digital technology opened up another experimental space for me, where I can deconstruct, fragment, and recompose. By combining photographs of my drawings and paintings, I create hybrids that then enrich my traditional work. There is a constant interplay between these mediums, and it is this interaction that has profoundly shaped my artistic language.

I have conducted and continue to conduct, numerous experiments in parallel, across different media and with different techniques. Nevertheless, the whole remains quite unified and coherent, at least, that's how I see it. I don't see them as separate practices, but as extensions of one another. Each technique brings something specific, but all contribute to the same exploration. They enrich each other perpetually. There are also pivotal moments, often linked to realizations rather than external influences. For example, the moment when I accepted allowing more space for serendipitous occurrences, for the unexpected.

Or again, when I began to fully embrace the fragmentation of bodies, without trying to correct them, moving more towards purity, erasure, feeling less of a need to show, to simplify, etc... Artistic influences certainly played a role, but more as triggers than as models. What struck me about certain artists was not so much their aesthetics or technique, but their ability to free themselves from constraints and abandon the need to seduce the viewer's eye with too many artifices.

How do you think art should be valued emotionally, socially, or monetarily? Is there ever an objective measure?

The question of art's value is complex because it touches on very different dimensions, which aren't always compatible, each responding to distinct logics. For me, the most fundamental value remains emotional impact. A work that evokes nothing, that creates no resonance, seems to me to miss something essential. Emotion can be multifaceted: unease, fascination, rejection, appeasement… Its nature doesn't matter, as long as it's genuine. Therefore, I have very little affection for "decorative" works, those creations we buy because they match the curtains or the living room lamp.

My personal work appeals to many people, but not everyone, far from it. For many, it's too hard, too moving and particular. I often hear the phrase, "I really like it, but I can't have that in my home!" My work certainly doesn't match their curtains, hehe. But that suits me, because I don't want to, and can't, create something that isn't impactful and embodied. Socially, art plays an important role, as mentioned earlier. It participates in a form of dialogue, of collective reflection. It can question, disturb, open up new perspectives. In this sense, its value far exceeds the object itself.

Monetary value, on the other hand, is more ambiguous. It's necessary because artists need to live from their work, which is unfortunately rarely the case, as art isn't valued as it should be in our society today. But it relies on mechanisms that aren't always linked to the intrinsic quality of the works. The art market is influenced by economic, institutional, and speculative dynamics. As in many circles, relationships take precedence, interests, like a true business... And the quality, the message, the vital force of the work, are relegated to the background.

I believe that in Iceland and Ireland, visual artists receive a small stipend to allow them to continue their practice, it's a great thing. And I would like to see this kind of system spread around the world. In any case, I don't think there's an objective measure of artistic value. We can analyze, contextualize, compare, but there will always be an irreducible element of subjectivity. What moves one person may leave another completely indifferent. Perhaps the true value of art lies precisely in this impossibility of being fully measured, in this ability to escape strict evaluation criteria.

How do you envision the evolution of your work in the coming years?

It's difficult for me to plan ahead, but I have a few ideas in mind. Who knows if they'll come to fruition? I recently moved into a new workspace within a group of artists' studios. Although everyone has their own space, I'm surrounded by other artists, all very different. I think this will have a certain influence on my creative process, even if it's subconscious. This new space will allow me to experiment a lot. In particular, I feel the urge to get back to oil painting and I've also done some trials with abstract pieces that deserve further development. 

In general, I want to bring more maturity to my work and I will take advantage of this new studio to go in that direction. Taking the time to immerse myself in production for many months, perhaps even a whole year, by limiting everything else related to artistic creation. I mean, fewer exhibitions, fewer commissions and side projects. At least for the remainder of 2026. And going forward, I hope my work will continue to gain in confidence, become even more assertive and resonate more deeply with those who view it. 

If you had only 24 hours left to create, how would you spend them?

I don't think I would aim to create a finished work in the classical sense. I would focus instead on a pure, almost instinctive act of creation, free from constraints and expectations. I would probably spend those 24 hours creating continuously, on a large scale, with energy and urgency, seeking an essential immediacy in such an extreme situation. This might be the necessary condition for the most sincere and liberating letting go and self-transcendence possible! To take this even further, I would probably make sure that no one would ever see the result. I think I would try deeply to connect with the child I was when I drew in my notebooks, never showing them to anyone. A final gift for him and for me.

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What this conversation reveals, quietly and consistently, is an artist who has chosen depth over legibility, sincerity over accessibility, and the long work of self-knowledge over the easier satisfactions of a finished object. The 24 hours left to create would be spent making something no one would ever see a final gift to the child who drew in notebooks and showed them to nobody. That image says more about Trëz's relationship to the work than any exhibition statement could. The practice is not performed. It is lived, privately and persistently, and what reaches the wall is only part of what it contains.