French artist and architect Guillaume Sardin first arrived in Kigali in 2010 as a lecturer, tasked with teaching architecture to Rwandan students.

What began as an academic appointment soon became a deeper exploration of Rwanda’s history, oral traditions, and visual culture.

Today, based in Paris, Sardin is known for, among others, his narrative artworks that blend European classical influences with Rwandan symbols, most notably his painted Inkongoro, Rwandan milk pots inspired by local stories.

In this conversation with The New Times, he reflects on storytelling, cultural exchange, artistic responsibility, and why art should always invite debate rather than certainty.

Could you introduce yourself?

I’m Guillaume Sardin. I’m an artist and architect by training, currently based in Paris. I also work on projects in Kigali.

I first moved to Kigali in 2010 to teach architecture at what was then KIST, which is now the University of Rwanda's College of Science and Technology. I was responsible for the theory and design curriculum. That experience pushed me to deeply question something essential in my work.

Why do you say something, and to whom do you say it?

When I began teaching Rwandan students, I realised I needed a curriculum centered on Rwanda. So I started researching Rwanda’s history, culture, and intellectual traditions.

I taught for four years before returning to France to work as an architect. Since Covid, I’ve focused fully on my art career.

I work with luxury brands, such as Champagne Maison and high-end hotels, but I also maintain a personal artistic practice where I mix old and new narratives. I believe that the more stories we tell, the more diverse and sustainable our world becomes. Complexity and density are beautiful.

How long did it take you to start researching Rwanda specifically?

It happened very quickly, within a few months of arriving. I was almost the same age as my students, and I remembered sitting in lectures myself, thinking, This isn’t relevant to me.

So I asked myself, what can we learn together that makes sense in a Rwandan context? I began reading scholars like Alexis Kagame and Édouard Gasarabwe to integrate Rwandan knowledge into the architecture curriculum.

Was that research interesting for you?

Very. I landed in 2010 knowing nothing about Rwanda. When you arrive somewhere unfamiliar, you must be humble and listen. To teach effectively, I needed to understand how people built, the power of traditions, and how those traditions still shape Rwanda today. It was fascinating, and it still is.

Since becoming a full-time artist, which work connected to Rwanda or Africa has stood out the most?

One of my most recognizable recent works is a large-scale painted triptych and a series of painted milk pots. I’m deeply influenced by Édouard Glissant, who developed the theory of creolization, the idea that cultures are interconnected and constantly influencing each other.

Even when I create in Europe, Africa, America, and Asia, the past is always present in my work. For example, one project in Normandy was a temporary triumphal arch built around a statue of a French king.

At its base were deities from Congo, Nubia, and Egypt. For me, it’s not appropriation, it’s about incorporating global stories respectfully into a shared narrative.

Rwandan history is largely oral. How do you navigate different and sometimes conflicting narratives as an artist?

Oral history isn’t an obstacle. Even if stories change over time, what matters is what they reveal about the people telling them.

I’m not a historian. I don’t need scientific precision. I’m interested in mythography—the study of myths. Myth is not falsehood; it reveals what people believed and valued.

As an artist, I think it’s powerful to be what we call an "unreliable narrator.” Artists shouldn’t be fully trusted. We provoke questions, not definitive answers.

Why did you choose the Nyagakecuru story as a flagship project?

I first learned about it while teaching. It’s a short but symbolically rich story, goats, snakes, and sorghum. It’s centered around a specific moment in time and carries strong visual potential. It’s also the story of a woman. That mattered to me.

Milk pots are culturally significant in Rwanda. Were you concerned that painting them might be controversial?

Yes, I was. Milk pots hold deep cultural value. If one breaks, it’s considered a bad omen. So I consulted cultural leaders and people from cultural institutions before beginning.

I only used newly commissioned pots that had never been used in households. Antique or functional ones should never be tampered with. Respect guided the project from the beginning.

Why are many of the pieces in Paris rather than in Rwanda?

Some are in Rwanda and have joined Rwandan collections. Others are in Paris because many of my collectors are based in Europe and already collect African art.

One piece is in the Rwanda National Art Museum, so it remains accessible to the public. Art always exists in this tension between public exhibition and private collection.

Who would you say your art is for?

Art is for everyone; it’s a conversation. For example, the milk pots were exhibited publicly for 24 hours in Kigali. We also held a roundtable at the Institut Français to discuss narrative, history, and interpretation. Collectors may own the objects, but the conversations belong to everyone.

How has the reception of the milk pot project been?

It’s pieces that talk to you. You need to understand the stories behind it. But the reception has been positive, especially among collectors who appreciate cross-cultural dialogue.

Why did you incorporate Greek influences into the milk pots?

Rwandan art is traditionally abstract and geometric. European art, especially since antiquity, is figurative. Greek vases, to me, are foundational to Western art.

When I looked at milk pots, I saw similarities in structure. That is why I imagined: what happens when a Greek vase meets a Rwandan milk pot? That intersection helped structure the visual narrative.

Are you concerned about accusations of cultural appropriation?

It’s a valid concern. I’ve discussed it with African artists, including friends from Benin. Appropriation happens when you hide your sources or claim ownership of what isn’t yours.

I don’t claim these stories as mine. I borrow, I honor, I cite. The story isn’t mine; the way I interpret is.

Rwanda isn’t widely known for its visual art. Do you think it’s because it’s not creative?

Not at all. That idea comes from a narrow 19th-century Western definition of art. Rwanda has poetry, dance, weaving, milk pots, architecture, and royal design. Craftsmanship is art. In Japan, master craftsmen are considered artists. Why shouldn’t it be the same in Rwanda? Art doesn’t need to be loud. Rwanda’s aesthetic is subtle, precise, and perfectionist.

What message would you give young Rwandan artists?

Open your ears. Open your eyes. Go to museums. Study craftsmanship. Learn online. Try new things. Not everything will succeed, but trial and error is part of art.

Do you have upcoming Rwanda-centered projects?

Yes, but they’re in early stages. I’m researching another story and exploring collaboration with a craftsperson. I want to continue working around narrative and Rwanda’s subtle aesthetic, but it’s still developing at the moment.

What message do you want your art to send?

We should always ask: Who is speaking? From where? To whom? Art isn’t about proving who is right. It’s about opening a conversation. As a French artist speaking about Rwanda, I bring my own worldview.

That perspective should be questioned. That’s the point. Art creates space for debate, not to settle truth, but to exchange stories.