Sculptor Thomas Waroquier’s tribute to Hervé Laplace, plastic surgeon
Thomas Waroquier, sculptor, shared artistic adventures with Hervé Laplace. On the occasion of the Fantaisies de printemps exhibition from March 20 to 30, 2025 in Paris, he visited me, deeply affected by the news of Hervé’s sudden death. Here is a tribute to him.
Hervé Laplace, aka René Apallec, aka Herbot, aka so many other things… Let’s get one thing straight: Hervé was an immense artist. An unclassifiable, inexhaustible creator, capable of building an entire universe with a pair of scissors, a stick of glue and a few old newspapers.
Portrait of Hervé Laplace by Thomas Waroquier, sculptor
He was a poet, a magician and a brilliant tinkerer. He worked fast, intensely, but above all, he worked right.
With his collages, recomposed faces, cut-out birds, mushrooms and cathedrals, he built up a body of work of rare power, demanding, funny and profoundly human.
But to say only that would be to forget all that he was, alongside his works: a man of friendship, of disguise, of sincere pretense. He wore a thousand aliases, each more brilliant than the last. He played with figures and statuses, for the sake of masks, but without ever betraying his true identity. It was this freedom that moved me.
Artistic partnership
My name is Thomas, but at the workshop and with my friends, I’m called Bibiche. It’s my real first name, the one Hervé allowed me to assume. Bibiche-Pastiche, even, when I sign satirical sculptures in his footsteps. Because with him, you had the right – and even the duty – not to take yourself too seriously, without ever ceasing to be serious about your work. He gave me that freedom. And what’s more, he gave me the confidence to become an artist like him.
Our shared history began with an unexpected call: area code +596, Martinique! The idea was to organize an exhibition in tribute to the great Dr. Hipolyte Morestin, inventor of Maxillofacial surgery, and father of the “Gueules Cassées”, the modern war wounded who inhabit our creations, Hervé’s and mine, and whose memory we strive to bring to light. It was the small town of Basse-Pointe, his birthplace, perched at the very north of the island, on the Atlantic coast, that wanted to pay him a grand tribute, one hundred years after his death. We went there together, as if on an adventure we hadn’t written down, but which, once lived, seemed to have always existed. On the spot, we discover the country and its history, thanks to Muriel Salpetrier, passionate lover of her island and captain of this crazy expedition. We laugh a lot.
We drink ti-punches. We talk about sculpture, collage, Otto Dix, Max Ernst, wars, ravaged faces and shattered humanities.
I was privileged to share this rare moment with Hervé, and the icing on the cake, to lead an engraving and collage workshop with him for young schoolchildren in Basse-Pointe. Hervé didn’t teach: he shared. Generous, spontaneous and winkingly funny.
On the last day, the town council gave us bottles of rum – good JM rum. As Hervé couldn’t bring them back, I found myself transporting rum to Toulouse via my grandfather. It’s a happy, absurd little business, just like him.
Then comes Covid. Long silence. A few calls. And then another invitation, this time to Besançon, to exhibit at the national congress of maxillofacial surgeons. Here we go again, laughing among the doctors and scalpel salesmen, discussing art and traumatology with the same intensity and humor. And I discover Hervé a little more tired, a little more indecisive too. So, from time to time, I’m the one who encourages him. And that changes everything, because our bond evolves, becomes deeper.
We met up again in Reims the following year, for another congress, another adventure. That’s what Hervé was all about: as soon as he turned up somewhere, you had the feeling he was going to rob the place. At any moment, he seemed ready to take off with the cash register. But he wouldn’t. He’d leave with a few salvaged treasures, a couple of collage ideas and a bottle in his suitcase. And with him, it was always a victory. Because he knew how to laugh, make people laugh, create and pass on. Because he had, with few words, taken his revenge on gloom and over-serious discourse.
Delicacy, fantasy, freedom in counterpoint to world's gravity
One day, we exchanged works. He gave me a collage that I’d put in the studio, which accompanies my creations. And I gave him a small sculpture. It’s not much, but it’s huge. Because with Hervé, everything was important. Everything counted. There was an intensity in the derisory, a depth in the funny. He had the elegance of a slightly dishevelled adventurer, a look that was both tender and piercing. He was a discreet but essential mentor.
Today, I miss him. Terribly. And I think many people miss him, even those who only knew his work. Because in his work, there was everything he was: finesse, fantasy, freedom, and that rare kind of humanity that makes you want to keep going, even when it’s hard. No posturing, no cynicism, never. Just a thumbing of the nose at the gravity of the world. And a lot of love, even when he didn’t say it.
Hervé was a hummingbird, yes. A lively, colorful, funny little creature, who passed by like the wind, but who, in his own way, changed the landscape. He touched my life, he nourished my art, he forged part of who I am. And for that, thank you, Herbot. Thank you, René. Thank you, Hervé, you facetious little hummingbird.
Text by Thomas Waroquier
The thrill of artistic discovery
