To think of François Hugo is to think of nothing less than "luxe et volupte" sans the "calme." For instead of calm Francois was a veritable torch of energy, with its bursts and sparks lighting up the space around him, rain or shine, with a golden glow of optimism and gaiety that was sure to dispel any gloom that might be hanging around the studio or workshop — the places we mostly occupied.

 

Our own studios were like most painter's spaces: smelling of turpentine and hopefulness. But the atelier of François Hugo was a magical area right out of the stories of Prague and its secret goldmaking legends. Everything was ordered. Innumerable little drawers held records of each artist's sculptures, their editions, their specifications. And on long tables one saw the mysterious molds, hammers of all kinds and tools that would, under François Hugo's hands, turn a shapeless hunk of pure gold into a blazing ornament for someone's beloved.

 

As one of those artists who saw their projects shaped — with the most consummate understanding — by François, I count myself among the lucky few. Some of our happy times, with Monique beside him, whether in Aix or in Paris or under some restaurant plane trees, are treasured memories; his wit, his teasing, his bone-crushing bear-hugs, unforgettable golden moments.

   –"Letter to Pierre Hugo," Claire Siaud and Pierre Hugo, eds. Bijoux d’Artistes/Artists’ Jewels: Hommage à François Hugo. Aix-en-Provence: Les Cyprès Editeur, 2001, p. 35.