Salut ! Je m’appelle Léo.
I was born on February 14, 1995, in Paris. Valentine’s Day — yeah, ironic. But there was nothing romantic about it. I didn’t grow up in galleries or cozy apartments. I grew up between tiles, stairwells, pull-up bars, and a skateboard. The city was rough, noisy, sometimes mean — but always honest. And I became the same. Paris taught me from the very beginning not to wait, not to ask, but to take, to move, to make.
I started drawing almost as soon as I could hold a pen. Not because it was pretty, but because I needed to unload everything building up in my head. The images came on their own — strange, bright, sometimes even a little scary. I didn’t show them to anyone at first. Then one day, I showed a sketch to a friend. He stared at it for fifteen minutes and said, “Dude, what’s going on in your head? You’ve got a whole animated series living in there.” And after that, it just never stopped.
Now I’m back in Paris, studying in an art school. But honestly, that’s not the main thing. What matters more is creating, experimenting, building my world piece by piece. Sometimes it comes out wild. Sometimes, strangely tender. Sometimes completely incomprehensible. But it’s alive.
I usually start with paper. A pencil feels like an extension of my hand. It doesn’t slow me down. I don’t overthink — I just draw the line, and it already knows where to go. Sometimes it turns into a pose. Sometimes, a face. Sometimes a weird scene that no one but me could understand — and not even always me.
When the idea takes shape, I often take it into digital. Into 3D. I sculpt the character like a doll — only alive. And that’s when another kind of magic begins: volume, light, shadows. The way light hits the chest. The way fabric falls on the hip. It’s not just a model. It’s him or her — someone I’ve already mentally lived with for a few days. Someone I start dressing, giving skin, picking materials for. They become real to me.
AI is part of the process too. I work with Stable Diffusion — not because it replaces me, but because it helps me break boundaries. Sometimes I feed it a clear idea, other times I throw in something abstract just to see what comes back. Sometimes it’s junk. Sometimes it’s gold. And sometimes it throws me something I never could’ve drawn myself — but it’s exactly what I was looking for. It’s like this strange, wordless conversation with a machine that doesn’t quite understand me, but still gets it right.
VR and AR are a whole different pleasure. It’s not just about drawing a character anymore — it’s about giving them space. A stage. A presence. I want the viewer not just to look, but to actually stand next to them. To feel how they move, to hear the air around them. It’s no longer a picture — it’s a moment you can step into. Sometimes it’s a dancer frozen in mid-move. Sometimes it’s just a stare suspended in space.
Panoramas and 360-degree scenes take it even further — there’s no more sense of “screen.” You’re inside. People react differently in those environments. Less analysis, more intuition. Some say, “It made me uncomfortable.” Others say, “I want to go back there.” That’s what I’m after. That means it works.
And yeah, I still read comics. But mine aren’t neat panels with cute dialogue. They’re like scenes from a movie you stumbled into by accident — intense, confusing, physical. There’s a lot of skin, sweat, breath. I don’t aim for “nice.” I do what I see. What I feel.
My style comes from everywhere. From nylon tracksuits. From the sound of a volleyball hitting the net. From the flickering light in a locker room. From rusted skateparks. From Nike sneakers left drying overnight on the heater. From weird dreams where nobody speaks, but everything makes sense.
I’m not an artist in the classic sense.
I’m just a person with too many images in his head to stay silent.