Art at the Domaine by the Ceysson & Bénétière gallery

From the kitchen window, day after day, I watch Pagès' latest sculpture rust, but also turn blue. I watch its iron skin, its copper skin, transform; through it I see the passage of time, the effects of weather, of sun and rain. I could even imagine that it is the wind that gives it its leanings. I was about to write: its inclinations—and perhaps that is the more fitting word.

Pagès's sculptures are never self-evident, yet they possess an inclination. They have an affinity for living things; they gravitate toward their delicacy, their strangeness, their radical otherness, seen up close, seen simply as they are. My own gaze is sharpened by the artist's: by his observations, by the attention he has devoted to the world throughout his life. The sculpture before me: around a stake, two matched pieces of wood, one sheathed in copper and the other in iron. The sculpture I am looking at is not far removed from the phenomenological drawings of the 1970s, from the imprints of rain or sunlight, from traces of passing time, from the meticulous—and equally inventive—recording of reality; the recording of a reality that simultaneously asserts itself and slips away: the inclination of an entire life.

The sculpture busily rusting and turning blue bears the title Trophy. Yet nothing could be further removed from competition, victory, or reward than Pagès's work. The title is deliberately modest, almost comical (though never ironic—irony is foreign to the artist's temperament). Or perhaps, conversely, it burlesques everything that seeks to impress us, an unwitting rejoinder to the black monolith of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Pagès's work does not fall from the sky; it is not the creation of an omnipotent demiurge. It does not block our view, nor leave us awestruck. Rather than inviting us to bow before it, it invites us to bend down and contemplate the precious fragility of the world we inhabit.

Take, for instance, the tendrils of grapevines, evoked by metal springs in the Ceps en foule (2000), a discreet act of insubordination against the orderly rows of cultivated vineyards. A crowd of vines, untamed vines, wild grapevines whose fruits would be the remnants of the studio: fragments of coloured concrete or charred wood. No wine will ever be made from them. The Ceps en foule exist for the beauty of the gesture alone, for no practical purpose, and for the laughter that this very purposelessness awakens in me.

Or consider the white stones inlaid with ceramic and heightened with a delicate pink hue, sparkling stones transformed through impregnation into Les pierres roses (1984), innocently brushing against gleaming fragments of oil drums: the noble and the discarded become impossible to distinguish. The iron horns that bristle from the pink stones take no offence at this encounter; on the contrary, they seal an alliance that abolishes all hierarchy. Especially since these iron horns were found in the sea, where they were softened and learned the art of mediation.

I do not retrace time; I see through it a steadfast consistency and its endless variations. They do not exhaust the world by so much as an inch; instead, they unfold its possibilities. A discarded ladder is planted into the stump of an olive tree and becomes Jacob's Ladder (L'Échelle de Jacob, 2017–2018), freed from every angel. Copper is crumpled until it acquires the lightness of paper; brightly painted metal beams, tapered and twisted at their summits, seem almost to beat their wings. One of them, painted white, perhaps summons the absent angels of the ladder.

So, in the end, why not a trophy? A trophy that could be crowned with construction-site bunting, Arrangement branchages et guirlande de chantier (1969), or with wild grasses whose seeming insignificance has never been more deserving of attention, Empreinte d'herbe et de boucharde de maçon (1971). Arrangements, assemblages, correspondences that the works on paper reveal between grass and manufactured objects, dried mud, wire mesh, the veins of wood, and the subtle colours that elevate them. Minute, extraordinary conversations in which what is threatened by disappearance, by chaos, by our futile accumulations, quietly emerges.

So, in the end, why not a trophy—one that celebrates this art of discernment.

Maryline Desbiolles

"Neither quite the same nor quite another…"

Jérémy Liron demonstrates exemplary clarity when describing his working process—hardly surprising for an artist whose work is distinguished by its remarkable legibility. Let us hear him:

“I have been working on this body of work since last August–September, conceiving it as a Suite Panéry. This is the generic title I give to this sub-group within a series I have been pursuing for twenty years, entitled Landscape(s), with each painting numbered. Thus, the first painting in this Suite Panéry is Landscape No. 289, and I am currently working on numbers 298, 299, and 300.”

This commitment to an open-ended endeavor, along with the vertiginous numbering that accompanies the titles, may call to mind Roman Opalka’s celebrated cycle Description of the World. This singular body of work consists of a series of paintings covered with meticulously inscribed numbers, each invariably titled Detail. Each new canvas extends this numerical “accounting” toward infinity, following a process intended to be interrupted only by the artist’s death.

Far removed from Opalka’s closed and ascetic universe, Jérémy Liron’s work opens instead onto nature. Yet these are not expansive landscapes in the Romantic or Symbolist tradition. The artist focuses on fragments—most often trees—which he revisits relentlessly. Trunks and branches are observed from varying angles, from afar or in close-up, at different distances, isolated or combined with peripheral elements. Liron enjoys producing versions that are extremely close to one another, like a musician practicing scales, never tiring of the exercise. Systematically deployed, these motifs form a series: an investigative practice, a formal inquiry that rejects any belief in the singular masterpiece. What is at stake here is continuity—not narrative, but optical.

This “visual wandering,” in which an apparent descriptive impulse conceals a desire to grasp analogical structures and their transformations, constitutes a defining feature of modernity: the shift from theme to motif, from description to construction. One might even be tempted to think that the theme of the series becomes a mere pretext, so firmly does repetition of an element assert itself as the rule rather than the exception.

Confronted with these images, the viewer is seized by a sense of unreality. The gaze glides over these representations of nature, never far removed from the urban realm—at once accessible and elusive, immaculate and frozen. The radiant light, the intense and uniform blue of the sky, and the total absence of human presence evoke a theatrical set. More than singular landscapes, these images enact a true transposition—indeed, a transplantation—of reality into an artifact, one that proudly asserts its artificiality. This is underscored by Liron’s series of small-format works, which pair a landscape with a work of art by one of the great masters of modernity—Léger, Miró, Matisse… Does nature imitate art?

Itzhak Goldberg

Who thought they could take away that place?
Outside, lead us out quietly
Lead us outside, and they lead us out quietly.
PJ HARVEY. Plants & Rags
Album Dry. 1992

Sometimes you have to leave the studio to get some fresh air, equipped with the bare minimum: a sketchbook that is neither too big nor too small – A5 or thereabouts – and a felt-tip or ballpoint pen. A simple notebook and pen to avoid any temptation to create a work of art, which would be implied by choosing heavyweight paper and highly artistic tools.

For it is not a question of going out to sketch, of seeking shapes and colors to confront or verify the validity of a formal vocabulary left hanging behind the door that has just been closed. It is about getting some fresh air without assuming that any trace will be produced. It is, in fact, always possible that on returning from this escapade, the notebook will be placed back on the table without anything having been written, noted, or drawn. Getting some fresh air means swallowing space with your feet, alternating between walking and stopping without any regular rhythm. It means swallowing space with your eyes, shifting your gaze between the distance, the surroundings, and the immediate vicinity, in depth and panoramically. It means changing your lines of sight, tilting your head back to follow the path of an airplane or searching close to the ground, as close as possible to the insignificant, experiencing the delicate balance of an insect on a wild carrot or a few chestnut husks already rotting away.

To take in the air is to probe space by listening to the sound waves weaving together: the continuous bass of the same—or another—airplane, the reverberation of a chainsaw that is difficult to locate, the shivering chirping of crickets, and the counterpoint cry of a buzzard. It is setting off laden with images—Dürer and his tuft of grass, Van Gogh and the Crau plain, Vallotton, Beuys and the queen bee, Thek... – and then, quickly, let yourself be unburdened by the unexpectedness of reality, by the impossibility of the line, by the elusive chaos of everything.

Then you have to know how to return to the studio, to the place where the collected graphic fragments can be reviewed and rethought in order to project them towards a new mode of existence. Leaf through the pages of the notebooks, as if searching a field, allowing yourself to discover what was difficult to perceive at the moment of graphic deposition in the notebook. Be surprised not by what has been noted, but by the rhythmic occupation of the page by the line. Seek an economy of means that would allow this rhythm to be replayed, to be deployed without distorting or weighing it down.

The first step is therefore to incorporate the initial sketch by changing the format, thus forcing a shift in the articulation point of the lines: from the knuckles to the wrist, from the wrist to the elbow, from the elbow to the shoulder. This sequence is repeated until the impulse that motivated the initial sketch, its immediacy, is recaptured. This operation requires a change of tool and technique; a switch to a brush—sensitive to the slightest variations—and Indian ink, which prevents any retouching. This repetitive work brings with it a host of differences and accidents that must be carefully considered in order to decide whether to reject them, in which case we start again, or to accept them by integrating them into the drawing.

These ink drawings are in turn viewed, sorted, and selected according to their ability to convey a flow of air between the lines, then placed in a colored environment created using pigments applied with a brush, i.e., a color conceived more as light than as paint, distanced by a slow and patient process of squaring, in which each square is worked on one after the other like a small abstraction. Because ultimately, what we must strive for is to give presence to what is barely sketched in the notebook, to reveal the insignificant things we have observed, to recreate the air we breathed when we left the studio.

Born from a long-standing collaboration between Bernar Venet and the owners of the estate, Jacqueline and Olivier Ginon, this project establishes a dialogue between recent works and older creations.

The exhibition explores the omnipresence of the line, a fundamental element in Bernar Venet's work, where art and science converge in a constant tension. "The artistic project is not about 'making sculptures with steel bars,'" writes Thierry Lenain, "but about making present, within an artistic context, lines incorporated into steel bars." Straight, curved, or indeterminate, these lines rise, lean, unfold, or collapse, as if to test the very limits of form and gravity. Suspended, arched, or stacked, they question sculpture not as volume, but as phenomenon.

As visitors explore the exhibition, they also discover the Gribs series, which began almost by accident in the early 2010s. "Hundreds of scribbles are drawn on small pieces of cardboard," explains Olivier Schefer. "Some lines are cut with a blowtorch, others are deliberately drawn with eyes closed, to achieve a freer, more nervous, more uncontrolled gesture." This controlled disorder, which evokes an eruption of chaos, marks a new stage in the artist's trajectory, further expanding the realm of possibilities.

Finally, the Stacks—these stacks of Corten steel arches—perfectly encapsulate the radical nature of the Venetian gesture: “My goal is to limit interpretation so that my sculpture is perceived in its intrinsic, physical reality,” the artist states. “A real object in a real world.”

Since his first coal piles in the 1960s, Venet has explored the notion of immanence, while affirming a raw materiality: "Steel seems to me to be the ideal material... noble and neutral at the same time, malleable enough for what I want to do."

A key figure in the dialogue between art and mathematics, Bernar Venet established himself on the international scene in the 1970s. Based in New York and later in Le Muy, where he established his foundation, he pursues a body of work that combines conceptual rigor, powerful visual expression, and formal audacity. This exhibition at the Domaine de Panéry pays tribute to an extraordinary career and celebrates, in a unique setting, the dynamism of a constantly evolving oeuvre.

Nominated for the 2025 Marcel Duchamp Prize, the artist continues his exploration of the mineral and the animal by introducing pozzolana, a volcanic powder used in Roman cement. The result is poetic, sensitive, and unsettling works that foster a broader reflection on life. Through this exhibition, Sabatté opens a new chapter in his work, rooted in the materiality of the world and confronting us with the inevitable passage of time.

Pozzolana, linked to both the history of humanity and that of the Earth, becomes a new field of experimentation for Sabatté. Continuing his bestiary, the artist shapes creatures emerging from the ashes, birds that, like the phoenix, are reborn. These sculptures embody the suspended moment when matter seems to self-repair, between destruction and reconstruction, a disturbing echo of the processes of life.

In addition to this group of sculptures, there is a series of oil paintings also created with pozzolana, this time mixed with fragments of silk fabric. Lionel Sabatté works directly on the floor. He pours different dilutions of liquid onto his canvas, revealing organic and fluid forms, shaping a universe where new creatures emerge. Through these gestures, he explores the relationship between chance and control, figuration and abstraction, birth and dissolution. Silk, linked to the metamorphosis of the butterfly, and pozzolana—a volcanic rock, a symbol of destruction—weave a dialectic between the mineral and the organic, the ephemeral and the timeless, birth and chaos.

Commentators on the work of Christian Floquet (born in Geneva in 1961) have often discussed the relationship of his paintings to the exhibition wall: the careful application of paint with a roller—to avoid any sense of texture—flat areas without modeling, and two-dimensional space. They have also emphasized the interplay between background and figure, which in this respect is reminiscent of some of the questions raised by the Supports/Surfaces artists around 1970.

But few have explored the importance of the oblique and asymmetry in Floquet's work. These elements, true masters of this interplay, literally barring the canvas and contrasting with the parallel lines of the frame and the wall, reveal the very pictorial quality of the painting. And when vivid, intense color reinforces the imbalance of masses, it simultaneously (de)constructs space. As for white, which the painter sometimes uses instead of color, it allows him to integrate—through the space that exists between fullness and emptiness—the idea of ​​the wall into the heart of the work.

Linked to a movement that inherited from Op Art, Concrete Art, and Minimalism, Floquet here undertakes to update and rethink research begun by his predecessors after the Second World War. His quest is also one of absolute sobriety, constantly reiterated. His obsession with geometric form and background—and their interplay created by the optical illusion of collapsing planes—has been reaffirmed in his work with rare and beautiful consistency for over twenty years.

Text by Camille Vieville

May 4, 2024. "Frank Stella passed away."
It's 11:30 PM and I receive this text message from a painter friend.
I look at the New York Times page announcing the death of the man commonly known as the precursor of minimalism. The major American daily headlines "master of reinvention." I am deeply moved, because I am currently writing this text, begun a few days earlier, about the exhibition of the artist's last works this summer at the Domaine de Panéry. I realize that the exhibition is becoming a tribute. And this text, straddling the before and after, is a kind of transition.

I'm looking for images of his Black Paintings, which disrupted art history. In particular, this vibrant painting of a grid of black and white lines titled "Die Fahne Hoch!" (Raise the Flag High!), a reference to a chilling Nazi party chant. An abstraction, yes, but with a dizzying meaning that here has no need to unfold in figuration. The narrative flows naturally from the form, so powerful is it. It's a true history painting, yet completely abstract. Unprecedented. This is Frank Stella's artistic revolution of the early 1960s.

Subsequently, his approach would continually challenge the possibilities of extending the original flatness of the canvas. For the artist, a painting was not an image, but a "working space": the site of all possible transformations and explorations, the place where thought was fulfilled, where a symbolic vision of the world was constructed; let us dare to evoke here, a few centuries later, Leonardo da Vinci's "cosa mentale" (mental mind). Stella's pictorial research extended the essentiality of form to its maximum, starting from an original point: Josef Albers's square, Jean Hélion's cone, Matisse's cut-outs, Velázquez's illusionism, Tintoretto's projected perspective... Of course, listing all these revolutionary predecessors might seem like a laundry list. However, in Stella's case, this enumeration is far from being a cliché. For his artistic vision never ceased to question the meaning of modernism and the avant-garde in painting, but also to interrogate the power of formalism. "Formalism" is, moreover, a controversial word, given how much 20th-century art history attempted to combat it in favor of the conceptual, the idea, and, more recently, documentary and sociological approaches. The question of formal power nevertheless remains Stella's central theme, who, like Richard Serra in the field of sculpture (who died a month before him), succeeded in evolving the notion of flatness into entirely innovative three-dimensional territories. The almost simultaneous passing of these two giants seems to signal the end of an era.

Stella's true achievement lay in his audacious handling of form, which led him to perhaps be the only one to have successfully developed his minimalist lines and grid into what he ultimately called "maximalism." Much like how Italian primitivism, two centuries later, gave rise to Baroque extravagances. Some have interpreted this as a change of style. This is incorrect. It represents absolute continuity in terms of perpetual reinvention.

The works from recent years, presented in the exhibition, are a masterful demonstration of this. Let us first consider the work on paper from the series Illustrations after El Lissitzky's "Had Gadya," dated 1985. It could almost be considered a manifesto, so openly does it relate to the Russian avant-garde artist El Lissitzky, paying direct homage to his mastery of geometric simplicity while setting it in motion through an animation of colorful overlays evoking the rhythm of the traditional Passover song, "Had Gadya." He introduces the motif of the wave, which he would later revisit in his famous series inspired by Herman Melville's novel, Moby-Dick, in which he brilliantly blends various engraving techniques with collage and hand-colored highlights. These aggregates of forms seem like an abstract Baroque response to the revolution of Paul Cézanne's figurative Cubism. This response reached its zenith in the immense painting Karpathenburg II of 1996, an impressive pictorial symphony where geometric forms break free from the canvas, which seems to be, in itself, a synthesis of all previous avant-garde movements, be it Cubism, Abstract Expressionism, Geometric Abstraction, Lyrical Abstraction, and so on. Then, from the 2000s onward, his painting transformed into reliefs of fascinating complexity, combining steel, fiberglass, aluminum, and thermoformed plastic (RPT). Their multicolored swirls intertwine, almost taking flight. Internal membranes of a car engine or a living organism? We circle around the question. Painting trophies. Music trophies for the series inspired by Scarlatti's Sonatas. Fishing trophies, too. Their titles evoke, for some, rivers and lakes of the Gaspé Peninsula, a region of Quebec where the artist loved to stay. Painting, here transformed into sculpture, is an imaginary territory that synthesizes the world, in its infinitely large and infinitely small dimensions, with its multiple variations. For the artist, it is fundamentally a question of space that can expand infinitely. Within these works, the increasingly prominent motif of the star is also noticeable. An idea of ​​the expanding universe? Particularly evident in the monumental star sculpture in teak. Stella, let's not forget, means star. Minimalist, constructivist, baroque, expressionist, illusionist, maximalist… Stella, without artistic boundaries, except for his fidelity to painting. He was absolutely futuristic and has now joined the stars.

Julie Chaizemartin, May 2024.

Nicolas Momein's artistic practice often unfolds from the study of trivial and functional objects and materials - from agricultural equipment for shoeing cows to slippers, from cotton bath towels to living room sofas, via various materials: salt stone, soap, leather, rock wool, etc. - and develops through the identification of gestures and techniques from industry or craftsmanship.

This almost anthropological approach is associated with constantly renewed learning because the artist has to understand and repeat these gestures, reuse these machines, collaborate with workers or craftsmen, in short, put himself in the position of making, unmaking or reshaping these objects and materials.

Nicolas Momein freely and artistically reinterprets a wide range of techniques and know-how, diverting them from their initial purposes. For example, in his recent series "Skin to Skin," initiated in 2022 during a residency in partnership with a leather and hide processing and finishing factory, the artist explores the properties and pictorial potential of pigmented aluminum foil, intended for industrial mounting. These sheets, coated with a film of colored metallic pigment, are used by the leather industry to transfer and fix glossy colors onto coated surfaces through thermal application.

Nicolas Momein appropriates this material for treating and ornamenting the surfaces of manufactured goods by modifying the mechanical stamping process. Working cold, through direct pressure of pigmented sheets deposited on canvas or vinyl surfaces, he blindly transfers his hand-drawn designs, guided but not pre-programmed. The highly colorful works unfold like improvisations, composed of rhythmic variations of gestures, oscillating between ornamental abstraction and primitive figuration, seismographic writing and flat planes of color.

While these strange, baroque, and flamboyant landscapes reveal a stratigraphy of traces accumulated in layers, they nevertheless possess a thin, film-like structure. Indeed, the technical process prevents the superimposition of applications: each transfer of colored material is therefore permanent and cannot be removed or covered over.

And while these pieces resemble paintings, they are actually structured like marquetry, composed of tiny layers (films) of metallic pigments that fit together perfectly on their support. But these films crease, leave marks, sometimes even seem hammered, and ambiguously gain thickness… like tanned or even scarred hides, or like industrial metal dies discreetly stamped with textile ornament motifs.

This series is part of his ongoing research during an artist residency organized by the Le Lait art center in Graulhet, where Nicolas Momein began working with the "Eureka" factory, specializing in the thinning and finishing of leathers and hides. From laceration to delicate gestures, the works explore the intimate relationship between the support and the medium.

It is this hybrid language, between technique and poetic extrapolation, that Momein proposes to question through this new series produced between the factory and the workshop for his upcoming exhibition at Ceysson & Bénétière in April.

The evanescent landscapes that Tušek painted in the late eighties observed the fundamental law of the genre, that of a horizon separating the earth from the sky; yet the latter was stretched in such a way that its disappearance was in the end inevitable.

With his paintings from 2006 to 2019, designated as "forests", the space is without landmarks, the gaze is lost in a tight jumble of green and blue hues, sometimes brown, whose material presents regular patterns.

Tušek's technique involves applying not canvas to canvas, but rather sheets of bubble wrap impregnated with paint. Through this method—in a single movement, the bubble wrap deposits, repels, and absorbs the paint—depth appears across the entire surface, and the viewer is led to lose themselves in successive accidents that ultimately resolve into a coherent whole.

The emergence of a figurative process is once again random, but terribly effective: we are confronted less with the already accomplished image of a landscape than with the cellular formation of what ultimately constitutes it before our very eyes. As we know, a landscape only exists for someone sufficiently detached from it to see it as such; the undergrowth, for its part, only finds its own reality for someone who loses themselves in it, a fictional walk and an actual gaze combined in the same disquiet.

The forest Mitja Tušek dreams of can be understood as that which predates all
civilization, which no path crosses, which no clearing cuts, from which the sky would be observable.

A world unto itself before the civilizing enterprise that made it visible by subjugating it, a "nature" that cannot even be designated as such. "Without these outer lands," "the persecuted, the outcasts, the lost, the mystics sought refuge," there is no longer, for Robert
Harrison, "of interiors to live in".

The undergrowth of Tušek belongs to a domain entirely foreign to such pretensions
human, unfold as an essentially unknown region, but in which
precisely he can once again exercise his senses, outside the law that forces the gaze to recognize a vanishing point.

These forests do not refer to any model. They manifest themselves with the same abrupt character, the same aplomb as a reality that invents itself entirely in place of the gaze.

Alain Cueff, excerpt from the text "The Axis of Painting", 2018

Looking at the living world before it changes. Looking at our world before the after.
I am not trying to predict the future but to capture the present through artworks that imagine the future.

I feel a deep love for living creatures in all their forms. And I will always wonder about our place as human beings on this planet.

In my sculptures, paintings, and drawings, I always show two worlds at the same time, juxtaposed and multifaceted worlds. I truly believe in the connections between seemingly unrelated things.

In the exhibition, I present humans in fantasized forms while animals remain in their authentic image.

We would see things differently if we accepted to consider ourselves as an animal among others. We would no longer need to change the world. How relaxing !
One thing is for sure: the planet will live long after us !

Because presumably homo sapiens, this upright ape, will set the world on fire. It will mobilise a mega-technical world, to one day bump our heads into the stars.

The earth, our cradle, will then become our museum.

Gloria Friedmann

Ceysson & Bénétière is pleased to announce the new exhibition of Franck Chalendard in the domaine de Panéry, in the south of France.

Franck Chalendard presents paintings created between the very end of 2022 and the beginning of this year with a new working process. The artist no longer works in series, but his production moves forward in time in a sliding manner. What follows makes sense with what precedes. Each painting is the painting of a moment that is its own.

Blossom does not refer so much to flowers or their blossoming - although this exhibition in springtime could make one think of it - but rather to the sense of luxuriance, profusion of colors, patterns, and tracings; the pattern constantly repeated.

One observes a set of layers, transparencies, reconstruction of the painting where the gesture leans on older tracings, less and less legible, like memories of patterns, without however dissimulating them, but by assuming them completely and by circumventing the constraints that they impose, crossing edges and overflows, sometimes bidding on the matter.
These paintings are obviously reminiscent of the geographical maps previously made by the artist: maritime navigation maps, french IGN maps in particular, where he relied on the readings and tracings from the hands of surveyors to bring out other topos, other data, and thus reveal a new cartography.

But what is most striking is the relationship with fabrics, the supports for the artist's paintings in previous series, furniture fabrics, sometimes glued one on the other (Christmas garlands, Canevas, Decals), the paint then dancing with them to make the painting appear. Here, no fabrics, except the linen canvas. However, the artist's thesaurus unfolds in a baroque vocabulary, patchwork, wax, and the entanglement of threads to the point of excess. It is the painting that plays with the motifs, with the colors, above, below, in a relationship of entanglement, to end up entangled like the bramble and the vine of Tristan and Yseult.

The possibility of the emergence of an intimate universe of dreams, memories, furtive images, that is what each painting sends us back to. It seizes us personally. It is perhaps this meaning of Blossom that we must retain: that of the emergence of painting.

Sandrine Chalendard

Jacqueline and Olivier Ginon as well as Ceysson & Bénétière are pleased to announce the opening of a new exhibition space in the hamlet of Panéry in the heart of an olive oil and wine estate.

Located in the county of Pouzilhac, the Domaine de Panéry, dating back to 1670, is a world apart within the preserved region of Provence. Olive trees, vineyard, and untamed nature extend as far as you can see to the West and the South, and to the East, in the direction of the Castle of Pouzilhac. But the estate is also a place to live, home to a hotel under construction, a guesthouse, a restaurant, and a café, a shop, and a wine cellar modernized in the spirit of the traditions and respect for biodiversity.

The wish of Ceysson & Bénétière when deciding to settle in Panéry was to continue its expansion in venues that stand out for their localization or dimension, such as the monumental spaces of Luxembourg city and Saint-Etienne, as well as also for their identity and the uniqueness of their architecture, like our galleries in New-York and Lyon. In Panéry, shows will be held in a dedicated exhibition room with regular programming, as well as in the wine cellar and the outdoor areas of the estate.

The visit of an exhibition, with the emotions and thoughts it arouses, often calls for a moment of conviviality.

In Panéry, this moment could last a few hours or a few days: the time of a walk, a dinner, or entire nights in the vineyard.