Born in 1949, she spent her childhood in Cameroon.
Back in France, she passed a "scientific baccalaureat" then decided to pursue art studies at MET DE PENNINGEN studio in Paris.
Then after completing teaching studies she became an Art teacher for disabled students.
Until 1999 she worked exclusively with bronze. After a rigorous study of anatomy she was able to leave realism to achieve a more personal representation, marked by cubism. She has always tried to express the deepest human feelings through human plastic art.
The number of her exhibitions increased in France and abroad.
She sold her works in Drouot, exhibited at Christine Colas Gallery in Paris, then was supported by Castille Gallery, rue de Miromesnil, Paris.
In 1990 she took part in an itinerant exhibition in 15 republics in USSR.
Next came the period of assemblage. During this time she kept searching for objects from the past which, having lost their original function have become an infinite source for forms, materials and colours that you have then to redefine and reconstruct. Then your mind begins to dream about strange stories, about animals behind your memory, about a whole life to be told. Weaving a story together is sometimes ephemeral, and in any case, as light as memory.
Where does imagination lie in the assembly of alll those familiar objects ? Maybe within the soul of the man or the woman who recognizes a gandmother's tool or the child who tries to feel where the wind blows from.
In this short-lived collection and assembly of such fragments of forgotten life the artist seeks to arouse emotion. She wants her quest for the childless toy, the overused tool, the piece wrechage rolled over and over by the ocean to be a tender one.
The other's experience of life is so fragile and so wonderful that it may take weeks of complicity to start making something new. The mischievous animal is somtimes born of ar encounter between objects that have not much to do with each other. Then the poetry of the set hangs by a thread that may give birth to small figures facing the fleeting moment.
It's an excuse for each one to tell a story of his own. It's a game, it's a joke, it!s the memory of tender moments When a cloud looks like a sheep.