When I first met Elias Loudiyi at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris - such a lovely place - the canvases felt too large for my living room, or perhaps the room was too small for their gravity. My first thought was logistical: these works would have to be pulled in through a window with a rope. My staircase would never allow such scale to pass politely. Third floor. Some paintings you hang. Others you have to pull in from the streets.

He works on toiles de jute - raw, rough, and materially present. There is dirt, texture, and irregularity. His hand moving is beautiful. He likes Cy Twombly. Fusain lines carve through bodies; pastel softens transitions.

He paints his family. His family becomes ours. The figures lie, curl, and lean - caught in interiors that feel real. Blankets swell like landscapes. Limbs extend. In one canvas, a couple reclines in proximity that feels tender. We all know these scenes; we just did not have the chance to paint them. He did it for us.

He seems calm. He fills large surfaces without noise. When he speaks about his grandfather, it is about exposure - being taken to exhibitions, being shown art, learning how to look before learning how to paint. It is not about inherited skill, but inherited curiosity.

Monumentality does not hide vulnerability. Again - all this is beautiful.

Text by Patrick Steffen