DAVID KATSHIUNGA

I lost my father when I was ten years old. He was a diamond dealer and often travelled for work. He provided for our family, but his absence was part of our everyday life. It became so familiar that when he passed away, I did not immediately understand the full weight of his absence. Only later did I realise how much I was still searching for that father figure. Without being aware of it, his absence left a mark on the person I became and on the way I learned to be present for others. One day, while working in my studio on an entirely different idea, the outline of a man emerged almost instinctively: no face, no details, only a silhouette. A stable, present figure. Paradoxically, it was through the absence of detail that I felt his presence most strongly. This is how L’homme Présent came into being. Years later, that idea took on another meaning. I came home from work with my mind still occupied by everything I had to do. My wife was telling me about her day. I was listening, but my thoughts were elsewhere. She looked at me and said: “David, I can see you… but you’re not here.” Those words brought me back to the work, and to my father. They made me realise that being there and being truly present are not the same thing. L’homme Présent is therefore not a portrait of a particular man, but a reflection on presence on what it means to truly be there for the people around us, sometimes without words, yet in a way that can be deeply felt.