“The Church Must Find Its Way Back to Artists”: An Interview with Frédéric Curnier-Laroche

9 october 2026

Why does contemporary art still arouse so much suspicion in churches? In The Church and Contemporary Artists, Frédéric Curnier-Laroche analyses successes and conflicts to understand what fosters encounters between them. He reflects on artistic freedom, ecclesial discernment and the urgent need to renew dialogue.

You begin your book with a provocative question: “Should We Be Afraid of Contemporary Artists?” Why?

It is not quite as provocative as it might seem, because this fear is very real. Observe your interlocutor’s reaction when you utter the two words “contemporary art”. When a contemporary work enters a church, it provokes almost immediate rejection or incomprehension, even before anyone has seen it: it is deemed insufficiently beautiful, insufficiently religious, or too far removed from familiar representations and therefore unworthy of the place. Controversies then take over… I need only mention the remarkable stained-glass windows by Claire Tabouret for the Pentecost cycle at Notre-Dame de Paris! I am not suggesting that every contemporary creation must be accepted or that every work will fulfil its purpose within the Church. Discernment is certainly indispensable, but before passing judgement, we must take the time to look, understand and meet the artist. The Church speaks of mission and transmission; it therefore cannot regard the artistic creation of its own time as something foreign to faith. Imagine if this had been the case with Giotto, Michelangelo or even Chagall!

Why does the Plateau d’Assy hold such an important place in your reflection?

Because this project brought together many of the tensions that characterise the relationship between the Church and artists. Father Couturier and Canon Devémy dared to invite leading artists to work on a church without requiring them to be believers. They first and foremost recognised their artistic merit. It was undoubtedly Germaine Richier’s Christ that provoked a fierce crisis. Some rejected this emaciated, rough and unrecognisable body. Yet the artist’s profound conviction was that, through the evocation of the Suffering Servant in Isaiah, she could reach the patients in the nearby sanatoriums who would come to pray before this image—a suffering figure whose particular power enabled it to speak directly to them.

I will not dwell here on the fierce controversy fuelled by certain groups and by the ecclesiastical hierarchy, which I examine in detail in the book. Instead, I want to raise an essential question: must a religious work correspond to a familiar image, or can it—and perhaps even must it—disturb us in order to lead us further?

You defend the artist’s freedom. How far can it extend within a church?

Freedom is essential, but it is exercised within a relationship. A work intended for a church enters a place with its own history, liturgical function and community. The artist must be attentive to this reality. Generally speaking, artists are the first to want to immerse themselves in the history of the place and in its evangelical message. A true artist is neither a dilettante nor a fraud.

Conversely, the Church and the clergy cannot treat artists as mere executors, assuming that they know better than the artists themselves what they should produce. If they determine the form, style and representation in advance, they leave no room for creation. A contemporary art project in a church can, precisely, provide bishops, priests and parish communities with an excellent opportunity to gain a deeper understanding of artistic genius.

I therefore speak of co-responsibility. The Church expresses what it stands for and what it wishes to transmit; the artist responds in their own artistic language. The encounter then becomes creative and enriching.

At Grignan, Ann Veronica Janssens does not depict any Christian scene. Why, then, does her work belong in this chapel?

On the one hand, this artist recovers the meaning of Christian symbolism by bringing it up to date through a technique and an approach that are distinctive to her work with light. On the other hand, she demonstrates that religious art is not limited to representation. In a sense, a genuine communion takes place between the artist and the site.

Within the Chapel of Saint Vincent, Ann Veronica Janssens transforms the space through the use of coloured glass panels. The light changes throughout the day, continually altering how the space is perceived. She represents Christ symbolically rather than through a traditional image. Yet her work leads us towards silence and contemplation. It therefore compels us to broaden our perspective. Light, colour, material and emptiness can also open us to mystery, as was the case in early Christian architecture.

I wanted to invite readers to move beyond the perennial question, “What does this work represent?”, so that they might instead seek an experience: “How does this work shape my experience and sustain my spirituality?”

You consider the Way of the Cross by Agathe Stéfani and Aude Carré-Sourty an example of a successful encounter.

Certainly, because everything begins with trust. A priest discovers their work in a gallery and recognises its spiritual depth. He proposes that they create a Way of the Cross, providing them with a clear foundation: the Gospel texts. He imposes nothing else. I would also emphasise that he does not abandon them, since the dialogue initiated at the outset continues throughout the creative process, as the two artists reinterpret the familiar form inherited from the nineteenth century that we regularly encounter in our churches.

The commissioner thus conveys a meaning, explains it and observes how the artists receive it, as they invent a form that he himself could never have imagined. This is precisely what an artistic creation project for a church should look like in 2026.

In Anzy-le-Duc, Gérard Fromanger’s project fails. What does this episode reveal?

What a waste! The project for the church in Anzy-le-Duc is emblematic of what happens when dialogue is not established sufficiently early. Many stakeholders are involved in a project intended for a church: the artist, the parish, the bishop, religious and heritage institutions, elected officials and local residents.

In this case, however, everything was mishandled from the outset. Amid fierce social media campaigns, accompanied by a remarkable proliferation of misinformation, misleading arguments and aggressive attempts at destabilisation, positions quickly hardened. Images circulated that those disseminating them were unable to explain honestly, thereby amplifying fears and misunderstandings. A fierce and troubling controversy took the place of discussion.

I guide readers through an analysis of this missed opportunity, even suggesting a possible way in which Gérard Fromanger’s work might have been welcomed. But I want to emphasise that commissioning an artwork is not simply a matter of choosing a work. The project must also be explained, its reception prepared for, and opportunities created for the various stakeholders to engage in dialogue. Otherwise, everyone risks retreating into their own criteria and permanently depriving themselves of a lasting and profound enrichment.

You often contrast discernment with control. What is the difference?

Control consists in determining what the artist must produce. Discernment means examining a proposal from several perspectives: artistic quality, Christian meaning, the purpose of the space, liturgy, symbolism and the community of the faithful. In this respect, I draw in particular on the thought of the Dominican Pie-Raymond Régamey, whose approach to discernment remains relevant today. His reflections remind us that a mediocre work does not become good simply because its creator is a believer or because it reproduces a familiar traditional iconography. Conversely, a new creation should neither be rejected nor accepted merely because it is spectacular or surprising. Discernment therefore requires greater cultural awareness, dialogue and intellectual engagement, rather than conformity to a model.

What role can Diocesan Commissions for Sacred Art play?

They can fulfil a genuine mediating role. They bring together artistic, liturgical, theological and heritage expertise. They advise and support projects and enable the various stakeholders to meet. But they are not the only ones who can contribute. We must also learn to develop our ability to look. We learn to read a text much more easily than we learn to look at a work of art.

All of us—clergy (bishops, priests and seminarians in formation), the faithful, members of heritage preservation associations, each and every one of us—must develop our artistic sensitivity. Are we curious? Do we take the time to truly look at what surrounds us, including art? Nothing can replace direct engagement with cultural venues, artists, their studios and their creative processes.

What, ultimately, would you like readers to take away from your book?

I hope this book will be an invitation to live in our own time, giving it all the meaning it calls for. It is an invitation to openness, curiosity and freedom, and seeks to remind us that the Church and artists have much to say to one another if they move beyond and reinterpret the art to which we seem so attached—art that, when frozen in fixed forms, often confines us. For we need only observe that contemporary artists explore the body, fragility, light, silence, violence, absence, death and hope. They give expression to the questions and suffering that are part of our own lives. These questions resonate deeply with the Christian experience, even when they are not expressed in religious language. The Church must accept this and integrate it. It must meet, listen and discern.

A living tradition does not simply repeat the forms of the past: it accepts that the creative work of its own time may challenge it and sometimes help it to see things differently. In this way, dialogue with artists can once again become a genuine place of faith and an expression of the divine. Authentic religious art is contemplated not through what we expect or through possession of an image we consider perfect, but through a gaze capable of recognising, serving and loving.

This book is available in French.

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