A curious event unfolded at a Dutch museum: an unknowing mechanic mistook Alexandre Lavet’s meticulously hand-painted artwork, a pair of empty beer cans, for rubbish and threw them away. Fortunately, the artwork was safely recovered. For the artist, this wasn’t a shock but rather a fitting reflection of his practice. The unexpected disposal — something other artists might dread — struck him as almost inevitable, given his fascination with the understated, the nearly invisible, and the overlooked. Where many strive for bold statements, Lavet lingers in the gaps, weaving poetics of imperfection and absence.
Interview taken from METAL Magazine issue 51. Adapted for the online version. Order your copy here.
Born in Clermont-Ferrand, France, the Brussels-based artist approaches art as an experiment in perception, inviting viewers to question what they see or, more accurately, what they don’t, drawing them to partake in the masquerade that is the art world. “I think, after all, art is a performance. The way art functions, the way art people act, galleries, artists, etc. It’s all a big performance. Sometimes I’m part of it, sometimes I’m playing with it, and sometimes, I’m away from it, depending on my mood,” Lavet reflects.
For Lavet, mistakes aren’t simply accidental missteps but are woven into the very DNA of his practice, engaging with the gaps conventional art might ignore. Confronted with Lavet’s work, viewers are gently encouraged to slow down and linger in the negative spaces, where overlooked details urge us to reconsider the places we often take for granted. Here, the imperfect is not merely tolerated, it’s celebrated. And the museum mishap? Perhaps it was simply part of the art unfolding. “I decide the beginning of the story, but each visitor has their own ending,” Lavet adds.
In the world of contemporary art, few embrace the delicate tension between invisibility and presence quite like Lavet. His work defies viewer expectations — often favouring empty, overlooked spaces over grand gestures or obvious spectacles. In an age when art can feel as fast-paced as it is heavily curated, Lavet dares to slow down, positioning objects with a sense of subtlety and near-absence that challenges viewers to question what they’re truly seeing. His practice is grounded in a keen awareness of the spaces we inhabit and the overlooked details: marks on a wall, remnants of past use, or objects left behind. Each piece is an invitation to notice the invisible, creating a space where absence reveals the “poetry or care in the object,” as the artist puts it. Lavet’s installations and interventions push boundaries between the seen and the unseen, leaving spectators to navigate a world of near-misses, unexpected encounters, and moments of quiet reflection.
These moments of imperfection, where control cedes to chance, reveal Lavet’s view that art need not be sterile or meticulously planned; instead, he sees value in those unexpected fractures, where the work finds new life and meaning. His sculptures, paintings, drawings, acts and sound pieces converse with the spaces they inhabit, each one guiding his creative process as he explores the potential in cracks and embraces the traces of human presence.
We sit down with the artist to discuss his scepticism towards an increasingly mechanised, error-free existence and our need for idleness and disconnection, moments he finds essential to creativity. As he contemplates a future marked by rapid automation, Lavet raises a fundamental question about our ability to find value in simply being, a theme that echoes through his work. In his world, art is neither escapism nor rigidly planned but an unfolding experiment in what it means to see, to care, and to exist within the subtle imperfections of life.
Ensemble nº.1, 2019. Mixed media. Photo: Alexandre Lavet.
You’ve exhibited your work internationally, but you’ve chosen to base yourself in Brussels for the past decade. What initially drew you to the city?
Friends. Just after graduation, I moved to Brussels to join some friends in an art space with studios and an exhibition space. I was doing websites back then. I moved there, and I stayed.
What about Brussels influences your creativity or resonates with your work?
It was more about the mood of the city, it’s very friendly. It’s not big, but you can find everything you need to work. It’s a good balance.
Your work often hovers on the verge of presence and disappearance, creating moments of subtle interaction with the space. How do you view the role of absence in your art, does it invite viewers to reflect on what could be rather than just what is there?
I was initially very interested in empty spaces, and then it evolved to working with absence. I was intrigued by all the small details you can find in a space and what’s left by people, workers and sometimes from construction work. And I was very interested in all these elements that make a room a room. The emptiness permits me to focus more on small things you might miss most of the time, which can also be quite poetic sometimes. So, using absence, I am trying to make people see these small things.
It can be argued that in our times, spectatorship seems increasingly passive, viewers often consume art quickly without deep engagement or critical thought, which can partly be due to the state of art criticism. Are you consciously trying to disrupt this passive gaze, and how do you hope audiences will respond when confronted with your subtle, often invisible interventions to the art spaces?
Yes. I’ve noticed that when I create art using emptiness and small pieces, people tend to engage more with the space. They take the time to examine everything closely. Typically, viewers just consume art without reflecting on the thought process behind it. So, this approach can be seen as a critique of art consumption in general.
You’ve worked with replicas that challenge notions of artistic labour. Can you tell us how the act of recreating something supposedly simple with great care and effort plays into your broader thoughts on the value of art, especially in spaces like galleries?
I think it’s a challenge, a personal challenge to try to make something into something else.
The incident with “All The Good Times We Spent Together” being thrown out in a Dutch museum touched on the fine line between art and trash. Do you feel this event echoes the very tension you explore in your practice? How do you interpret it in hindsight?
To be frank, I was not surprised. I was like, yes, and so what? I make objects that can be confusing, but it happens. It was not the first time. I was like, again? I was more surprised about the whole viral thing around it because, in the arts, these kinds of things happen all the time, but nobody wants to talk about it. Most of the time, it’s bad publicity because that means that the museum didn’t work properly. But yes, I was not surprised. It’s part of it. It’s not something I want, but it can happen when I’m playing with people’s gaze.
Do you find it almost inevitable when you’re creating work like that?
I don’t expect anything. I’m much more about looking at a situation or an element in an exhibition space that nobody cares about, and I’m like, okay, if I reproduce these elements, but turn it more into a sculpture or painting and put it back in the exhibition space, what will happen? Will people look at their surroundings differently? Will they break something? A while back, I sculpted nails with graphite and put them in the exhibition space on the ground, but nobody saw the actual sculptures. It was so tiny, and the people realised there were sculptures when they were destroying them by walking on them. So that was my first attempt to make people conscious that sometimes art can be something little, but it’s there, and you have to see differently or enter an exhibition space with a different mindset. But after that, I was like, okay, I will play with the audience differently. I don’t want them to break everything every time.
So, you view it more as an experiment, observing how people respond?
Exactly. I like that people can enter the space and leave with their heads turned 360 or 180 degrees. They are like, oh, there’s nothing to see. What’s there? Suddenly, they notice some trash and begin to realise, okay, so art can be that, and that’s interesting. You stay longer and longer in the space, and you can start to feel the poetry or care in the object. And you leave the space with a totally new vision of what an exhibition can be or what art can be. And I like that people can have an experience rather than just entering the exhibition space and saying, “I like it” or “I don’t like it.” For me, it’s not interesting to work that way. So, experience is very important to me, and that’s my way of facilitating experiences.
The White Cube ideology and its sterile environment is often criticised for removing context and personal touch from art. Yet, your work embraces that blankness to explore the gallery itself. How do you navigate this tension, and how important is the space itself in your creative process?
It guides me. When I enter a space, I observe what’s happening around me: what do I see? How does traffic flow within the space? Each space has its own specificities, particularly in terms of light. Light is the first thing I notice; it serves as my guide. I consider how to create an experience in that space, and then I begin to work. I might think about how to play with the light, the entrance, the windows, etc. If I don’t already have a sculpture that fits well in the space, I start creating one. Ultimately, the space is what really directs my process.
You’ve exhibited across a variety of spaces, from intimate galleries to larger institutions like Palais de Tokyo. How does your approach shift depending on the scale or context of the venue, and do you find one more conducive to experimentation?
I don’t know. For me, it’s the same. In terms of scale, I have never done anything in a space larger than 200 square meters, so I’m curious to see if I can handle a huge space. But I think it would be the same approach.
Your solo show at Dürst Britt & Mayhew involved relocating packed artworks into the gallery’s main exhibition space, almost like they were in a state of dormancy. Do you think there’s something about this moment of pause that reflects how we experience art in the age of constant stimulation?
That was the second time I was exhibiting in that space. I wanted to work with darkness and fullness instead of emptiness. Basically, all the opposite aspects to what I’m usually comfortable with. So, I decided to work only with natural light, but I made some adjustments with the special fabrics to make the space darker and put all the artworks from the storage in the exhibition space. The exhibition was conceived around sleep, and packaged artwork is something that sleeps in every gallery and museum.
How did audiences respond?
The feedback I received from visitors indicated that they enjoyed the moment of calm and passivity in the space. When you first entered the space, your eyes needed time to adjust to the low light. This adjustment encouraged you to take a moment to really see, which allowed you to start understanding what’s around you. Although it isn’t visible in the pictures, there was a soundtrack featuring elements from the outside world. I recorded these sounds while napping, creating a long soundtrack of ambient noises. Overall, the environment felt very quiet.
Your works are known for their playfulness and subtle humour, especially with the ways you hide or disguise them. Do you enjoy catching people off-guard in your daily life, or is this an instinct unique to your practice?
I would not say that, but I always think about how to do things differently.
Fashion and personal style can be art forms in their own right. How would you describe your relationship with fashion, and does it inspire or inform your art in any way?
I’ve been very interested in fashion for six years now. It has slowly infused my artistic practice, and in fact, right now, I’m not making sculptures or drawing. I have a lot of work and also a flat to finish. But besides that, when I have free time, I practice sewing and pattern making. It’s something I really want to understand and be able to work with. I have no idea what that will look like in my practice, but right now, it’s what I’m inspired by. I really love it.
If you could design a piece of clothing or accessory that reflects your artistic approach, blurring the lines between visibility and invisibility, what would it be?
Actually, I created two pieces of artwork using fabrics. One was a piece of printed fabric, and I asked a textile designer to make me a pattern of paint-stained rug. My mother used to paint a lot in the house when I was little, and there were always some rugs covered in paint stains. So, I worked with a textile designer to make a pattern using the idea of paint stains. I used a stiffener to make the fabric very hard and shaped it into a sculpture. I suppose that was still more of a sculpture than fashion, but it’s linked to the idea of fabric. I also made a two-piece garment for my last exhibition. It was something between pyjamas and workwear, like a suit or a uniform. It was designed to mix all these elements. I wore this two-piece garment at the opening, and when I left, I threw them inside the exhibition space. So, they were lying around in the space, connecting again to the idea of sleep.
The concept of sleep as part of your work, with sleepwear as part of your uniform.
Yes.
Your work often deals with disappearance and the unseen. If one day, you yourself disappeared from the art world entirely, leaving only a single artwork behind, what would that piece look like — and what would its absence signify?
I have no idea. I have no imagination when it comes to things like that. I’m very practical.
Fair. The mechanic who threw away “All The Good Times We Spent Together” acted out a kind of inadvertent performance. Could an error by someone else be seen as an extension of your art? Are accidents by others part of the work’s DNA?
I think, after all, art is a performance. The way art functions, the way art people act — galleries, artists, etc. It’s all a big performance.
Would you say you’re part of the performance, or do you try to keep your distance and simply comment on it?
Sometimes I’m part of it, sometimes I’m playing with it, and sometimes, I’m away from it, depending on my mood. But that’s definitely part of the masquerade of art and performance.
Your solo exhibition at Deborah Bowmann in Brussels was titled “Learn from Yesterday. Live for Today. Look to Tomorrow. Rest this Afternoon”. When you’re not working on an exhibition, what’s your idea of a perfect lazy afternoon? How do moments of idleness inspire your creativity?
Laziness and doing nothing for me leads to creativity, and the more I work, the more I do things, the less I have creativity. So, for me, it’s essential to have moments of doing nothing at all. It’s not like I do entirely nothing; it’s more about reading, pausing and looking through the window, listening to the sounds of the streets, being more aware of what’s happening, and living at a slower pace. This leads to creativity, allows me to think and gives me ideas. It gives me alternative views of my world.
If you could erase an iconic piece of art history, removing it entirely from memory, what would you choose and why? Do you think its absence would create new creative possibilities, or would it leave a gap that couldn’t be filled?
It was very interesting when Gioconda disappeared from the Louvre because it was not a very important painting at the time. But people started to come to the museum to see that the painting was not there, the absence of the painting. I really like that story; I’m not sure I have to check, but I think they made a copy that they exhibited, and years later, they found the actual painting, and then it became what it is today, so I don’t know what I would erase and what would happen after that. It’s not something I can imagine. But in history, I find what happened to Gioconda really interesting.
A bit like what happened with your work, I suppose, just on a smaller scale.
Maybe. On a very small scale.
If you could collect one totally useless object or artefact that defines our time, something future generations might find bewildering, what would it be? Does this object hold an aesthetic or conceptual value in its uselessness?
I think it’s phones, no? It’s maybe the dumbest thing I can say right now. But I can imagine the archaeology of phones a million years from now.
There’s a fascinating tension in art between what an artist intends and how the work is received, especially when something unexpected occurs. Have there been moments where an external factor — a mistake in installation, a misinterpretation, or even an accident — has revealed something new about your work? Could these uncontrollable elements be as essential as the work itself?
I decide the beginning of the story, but each visitor has their own ending of the story. And it’s very hard to track that because I’m not with them. I do not have a lot of expectations. It’s all very open. But what I feel in the space is different from what people tell me they feel. Sometimes it’s very, very, very interesting. It happens again with the painted cans. I was exhibiting this full, unopened can in another exhibition space, and someone took the can, drank it in the corner of a room, and put it back empty. There are some things where I am like, I didn’t think that it would go so far.
All the good times we spent together, 2016. Acrylic paint on aluminium, varnish Variable dimensions. Photo: Alexandre Lavet.
In a world where precision and control are often celebrated, your work seems to invite viewers into a space of uncertainty and subtle disruption. Do you think art loses something when it’s too meticulously planned? Could the unplanned or unwanted, like a spontaneous mark or a misplaced object, add a layer of meaning that control can’t achieve?
I think being able to do things nicely is important and all. But if there are no cracks, no errors, faults, objects sometimes lose personality and aura, and they become quite boring. For most big artists, be it in music or fashion, their uniqueness often stems from imperfection or the essence of their mindset, which allows you to feel their sensitivity.
The personality.
Yeah. I think we need that.
You often seem to play with laziness, idleness, or doing nothing in your work. Do you ever worry about a future where automation takes over everything, and humans are free from work but have no concept of how to simply be?
That will never happen.
Why?
When we first invented machines, many people thought we would have less work and more time to go be with families and all. But capitalism does not work like that. You’re a slave, and you will continue to work. You will lose some capacity, some intelligence, etc. you will be alienated because the machines will do it better than you, but you still have to work.
Do you think it’s part of human nature, not just capitalism, that we can’t simply be, that we always feel the need to do something?
Yeah, I think there’s something quite interesting to think about. Imagine a universal income; because you’re human, you would have the minimum wage salary every month; you would not have to work for it; if you wanted to work, you could work to earn more, etc, but you would have this. And I’m pretty sure many people would want to do something with their hands after a year or two, and it would probably be more creative.
And innovative.
Yeah, or working for connections, working for and with people around you, helping neighbours. It’s maybe utopic. I think people would still do something no matter what happened. Perhaps they would not do it to earn money. They would just do something because we are humans. In this capitalist world, when everyone is working and rushing around, you can’t always help people next door. I think technology will change some fields, but we will always need humans, maybe because of errors. You can’t make ChatGPT or whatever do an entire script of a movie or a book; it will be boring. It will be repetitive, linear, without soul. I’m pretty sure it will never happen because you can’t code it into the algorithm. It’s not possible. It might be nice but meaningless because it will not have the human cracks or failures in it, the past life, or the experiences that make you who you are. And experience is what leads to good arts in terms of literature or music, etc. It’s the feelings that come from past life. Machines will never be able to do that.
Ensemble n°5, 2019. Mixed media. Variable dimensions. Photo: Alexandre Lavet.
A dedication to my mother, 2016. Print on cotton, stiffener.
Variable dimensions. Photo: Alexandre Lavet.
Everyday, I don’t. Exhibition view at Passerelle Centre d’Art Contemporain, Brest (FR), 2018. Photo: Alexandre Lavet.
De grandes idées, 2018. Synthetic plaster, pigments, toner transfer,
color pencil. Photo: Alexandre Lavet.