I’ve always been fascinated by contradictions — softness that hides sharpness, beauty that teases rather than comforts.
When I look at Rococo art, I see all of that: the pastel clouds, the powdered faces, the silk and ornament — and beneath them, a kind of erotic intelligence. The Rococo world wasn’t just decorative; it was coded, playful, and deeply aware of how pleasure could be both ritual and rebellion.
When I paint, I often feel in dialogue with that tradition — not copying its style, but echoing its spirit. The way it turns excess into emotion, sensuality into theater.
My own surreal floral compositions — faces half-covered in blossoms, metallic glows against pale pinks, theatrical makeup, serpentine lines — all carry something of that Rococo impulse: the belief that beauty can be both seductive and subversive.
The Language of Ornament
The Rococo period, emerging in 18th-century France, was often dismissed as frivolous — a reaction to the grandeur of the Baroque. But beneath its decorative surface lies a world of symbolism.
The curling floral patterns, pearls, hearts, and mirrors that filled paintings and interiors were not mere embellishments. They spoke of desire, illusion, and self-reflection. Mirrors in particular — a recurring motif I often reference — symbolize both vanity and consciousness: the awareness of being seen, of performing identity.
In my works, that mirror becomes psychological. The glossy surfaces, metallic reflections, and chrome accents I use play with perception — not showing a clear image, but distorting it. Like Rococo art, they turn self-image into spectacle.
Flowers, too, carried meaning. The roses and tulips painted in soft gradients were metaphors for sensuality and transience — beauty already beginning to fade. I think of my botanical motifs in the same way: not as decoration, but as language. Each petal, each vine is emotional, sometimes wounded, sometimes defiant.
Eroticism and Theatrical Femininity
Rococo art celebrated the body — but never directly. It was a world of flirtation, glances, ribbons, and gestures. Eroticism was stylized, not exposed.
That tension fascinates me. The difference between what is shown and what is hinted at — between a powdered cheek and a bitten lip.
In my own portraits, I use theatrical makeup and exaggerated lower lashes to capture that ambiguity. The eyes become both mask and message. They invite, but they also withhold.
It’s a kind of playful eroticism — not explicit, but emotionally charged. It’s about control and surrender at once. The Rococo artists knew that desire was not just physical but aesthetic — something that lived in textures, colors, and surfaces. That same duality runs through my paintings, where sensuality often collides with surrealism, and softness hides voltage.
The Mirror as Soul and Stage
Among Rococo’s recurring symbols, none feels more contemporary than the mirror.
Artists like François Boucher or Jean-Honoré Fragonard painted women gazing at their reflections — both object and subject of desire. The mirror was not narcissistic; it was self-awareness turned into art.
In my practice, mirrors often appear indirectly — in metallic sheens, glossy layers, or chrome surfaces that catch surrounding light. They act like modern Rococo ornaments: unstable, shifting, alive. What they reflect depends on where you stand, both literally and emotionally.
This instability fascinates me because it feels human. We all mirror something — expectation, fantasy, the gaze of others.
To make art that reflects without clarity feels honest.
Florals as Codes of Emotion
If the mirror is the intellect of Rococo, flowers are its heart.
Every Rococo composition bloomed — not only with botanicals, but with innuendo. Garlands wrapped around bodies, petals unfolded beside pearls, roses stood for seduction and secrecy.
When I paint florals, I think about that language — but through a contemporary lens. My flowers aren’t simply beautiful; they’re psychological. Some bloom too vividly, almost neon. Others appear metallic, wounded, or tangled with serpentine forms. They carry emotion: tension between growth and decay, innocence and danger.
I often imagine them as living entities that remember — relics of myth and modernity intertwined.
The Spirit of Excess
What I love most about Rococo is its refusal to apologize for beauty.
It didn’t pretend to be moral or minimal. It was about abundance — of form, of feeling, of imagination. In that sense, it shares a pulse with surrealism and contemporary maximalism.
When I create, I follow that same logic. I let the composition overflow, let the color spill beyond reason. Chrome, pastel, shadow, bloom — all layered until it feels almost too much. Because sometimes, too much is the only way to reach truth.
There’s a strange honesty in exaggeration. Rococo understood that; it laughed at control.
Between Pleasure and Reflection
In the end, Rococo’s playfulness and eroticism weren’t superficial — they were radical in their sensitivity.
To embrace pleasure, to celebrate beauty, to mix irony with sincerity — all of that required courage.
That’s why I return to it so often, consciously or not. The florals, the mirrors, the theatrical faces — they’re not nostalgia. They’re reminders that art can still be sensual without being shallow, that emotion can wear makeup and still mean something.
Because joy, seduction, and beauty — when approached with awareness — are not escape.
They’re resistance.
