What first strikes when one meets Aïni, is the magnetism and sympathy he radiates. The handshake is firm although he prefers a peck. The bushy bacchantes, the bawdy accent which remindsthe wouthwest of France, the sparkling glance full of intelligence, everything tends to gives us the desire to explore the personality and works of this vigorosly orginal artist, for whom creation is a real mockery to human condition and especially death.
Aïni entered Art one enters War, to fight with his guts, his hands and all his soul, the blatant stupidity of our destiny. What tickles him, is to breathe life into his works and make a vibrant tribute, sensual, utterly erotic and even barbarian sometimes, to the Woman. Aïni is an eternal lover of the Woman, the genitor of which he searches the womb with delight.
Aïni is febrile, in the most honorable sense, since its often what brings the most sincere creation. For him to tell that one night, as sleep betrayed him, he started scraping his mattress until he extirpated feverishly its stuffing. Softness, warmth and the symbolic of that material where for him like an illumination, a revelation. The stuffing, which he calls "dreams or fantasies sponge" will become his raw material. He finds it since then, like a precious seam, in old mattresses over which people were born, loved each other, had orgasms and maybe died too. Between the springs of the mattress, like into an ripped belly, he searches, tears off flock as if it was a precious marrow and leaves the useless carcass of the mattress. The matter thus becomes a tremendous symbol of life.