Art definitely does not seem to be maternal. Art is not a half-open door to a snug and protected refuge, it is rather a door that is blocked, a half-open door made of concrete. And it is precisely this almost inhuman harshness that I seek in the bare studio, hemmed in by walls and a canvas that are excessively present and yet distant in their caustic and lucid affirmation. I mistrust the friendly and welcoming chatter of the familiar clutter of things no less familiar which take me in and with which I make «private home» when, tired of myself, I want to forget myself. What attracts and fascinates me, is the clear, transparent and distinct word of the almost foreign presence of an egotistical being who would face up to me. That’s my nostalgia, in which, sometimes, I slump. Hence I also prefer the night to the daytime in the studio: the neon light is harsh and severe because it is omnipresent, homogeneous and constant; daylight is soft, caressing, almost loving, it creates areas of penumbra and mystery varying according to the time and the changes in the weather; at night, the panes of the large bay window which occupies almost all one side of the premises are soft, black and silent rectangles which stand out against the white of painted frames and supports; in the daytime they are imprecise and soft images with a soundtrack, as if they had been put into the studio by the hesitant and creeping light. In the night time, the backyard and the everyday noises of the neighbourhood vanish into the opaque and soundproofed black of the tiles, and there is only the studio, empty, cleaned, repainted and lit up without complacency. Sometimes I sit here in this corner at the back of the studio, to face up to the terrible hyper-real presence of the empty studio which faces me. Why, you’ll ask So that the seclusion of the presence of the studio restricts me and helps me to find myself and to face myself, without any yes-buts, and without any maybes. Why In a certain way to train myself, to get into shape for confronting the painting. I put myself to the test of the nakedness of the studio in order to put the painting that worries me and that I am working on to the test, but also in order to be better able to put myself to its test.

Rémy ZAUGG et Heiny WIDMER. 1999. «Le singe peintre», in: GONSETH Marc-Olivier, Jacques HAINARD et Roland KAEHR. L'art c'est l'art, p. 11-44. Neuchâtel: MEN
  

Some people go as far as saying that the artist is more important than the art today. Like an entrepreneur, he has the infrastructures of his work prepared for him: the canvas, the frame, the paper, the mould; he gives instructions for preparing, pasting, welding, sawing, silk-screen printing; only then does he let the product appear out of the depth of his emotions and his reflections. If he is not manually involved, he supervises and controls, he lets the different specialists who help him correct the work or even start it over until he is satisfied.
The artist’s studio is no longer just a place full of mystery, of colours, of nude models; it is also a cold, sober laboratory in which today’s works are constructed: virtualities, artificialities, ironies and doubts.
Art is no longer a science or savoir-faire: it has become an attitude, a discourse, an event; and the studio, depending on the qualities of the artist, can be an industrial shed, a caretaker’s lodge or a manager’s office.
If an artist some times puts his place of work on show, he studies its look very carefully, be it chic, sombre or neglected.
  

Rémy ZAUGG. Le singe peintre, 1982. 1 toile apprêtée, 2 toiles collées face contre face et 7 acryl sur toiles 35 x 29 cm. Prêt Kunstmuseum, Berne. G 1985.46b.