Alexandre Abyla is not just another painter. He is one of those who cannot be manufactured: born with light at his fingertips, with a soul tethered to the canvas, and a visceral urgency to speak, to translate, to reveal. For over forty years, he has carved into paint the way one carves into truth—without deceit, without detour, with the delicate ferocity that only the most sincere artists still dare to wield.

For many years, he was a craftsman of substance, shaping walls, ceilings, and illusions. Frescoes, trompe-l’œil, period decors—he mastered styles as a sword master switches blades. But that was only the first skin. Today, he paints stripped bare. Bare of frills, bare of pretenses. He paints to speak.

And what he speaks, he whispers, he roars, he lets seep through every female gaze, every fragment of skin, every suspended gesture. His muse—the eternal one, the living one, the only one—is the origin point. Everything begins with her, everything returns to her. Through her, he paints all women: sovereign, free, defiant, haunting. He magnifies their silences, their contradictions, their cries of love and insubordination.

His hyperrealism is not an end in itself—it is a weapon. A tension. An offering. A taut wire strung between beauty and rupture. The viewer does not merely observe—they are drawn in, swept away, compelled to step into intimacy, to brush against light and ambiguity. For in each canvas, Alexandre Abyla reenacts the sacred. He summons the icon, the goddess, the woman of today and of always.

To paint is to talk. To talk about the unspeakable, to state the obvious. To speak of love, of the body, of memory, of power. To portray woman without reducing her. To depict the world without betraying it. In every piece, it is his entire life that rises to the surface. And in the silence of the studio, the fire still burns.