Tegmo
MIRRORS WITH A HUNDRED REFLECTIONS
WORKING WITH THE MIRROR
How did you become an artist? When did you start out busking?
I needed to do something with my hands, so I decided to make stained glass. Using a broken coaster I had lying around, I bought all the necessary materials. Without watching any tutorials, I tried to create three-dimensional shapes on my own. To stop my two cats from eating my plants, I decided to make terrariums out of glass and copper. Since my bases were a bit too fragile, I cannibalized a mirror to make a sturdier one. That was eight years ago. In mid-2019, a friend with an urban skating app wanted to mark the start and finish of a skatepark on Rue des Pyrénées. That's how I put up my first piece outdoors there in November 2019. From then on, I wanted to show what I could do, to come out of my cave and put my work up in the street. Seeing the play of light created by a simple mirror on a concrete wall blew my mind: creating a mirage, it reflected the trees.
Why were you interested in the mirror?
I loved it as a kid. I like anything angular, abstract; I'm a big Vasarely fan. Rounded shapes annoy me a bit. I had to follow that impulse, try to make something with my hands. It wasn't street art at all, but I discovered the joy of the street, the adrenaline rush, the thrill of showing others what you're capable of. Sticking up your stuff is like saying, "Look at me." Besides, the street is a space where you can try things out: I experiment there, like with my stained-glass windows in Butte-aux-Cailles. It offers easy access, with less risk. It's also about showing yourself off and the pleasure of seeing a forgotten piece again six months later.
Why did you choose to combine mineral and plant elements in your creations?
I was always surrounded by plants from a young age. I even placed a plant in my first collage. Gradually, I found that adding a little more vegetation to the structures worked well. It's as if the plant roots have broken the mirror, disrupting the overall structure. It's a bit like nature reclaiming its space. But increasingly, they're being pulled out, leaving my pieces gaping open. That's why I'm making more pieces without plants, marking a transitional moment in my work and making them more minimalist. Furthermore, small pieces with plants are difficult to water, whereas the substrate inside larger ones holds much more water. For this reason, it's essential to ensure that water can fall into them: whether it's the corner of a building, without a gutter, a whole process of research is necessary. During my first year, the thirty or so small triangles thus constituted a series of tests to determine what worked best.
BROKEN GLASS, MULTIPLE REFLECTIONS
Do you make a preliminary sketch to design the visual appearance of your pieces and anticipate their layout? Why did you choose to work with these abstract shapes?
I start sketching my pieces in advance, but for street art, I generally build the base before adding facets. I also work largely by feel, and after choosing the wall where I want to place the central element, I randomly shatter the facets. This is how my larger pieces often end up in several sections, arranged as I go. A shattered mirror can take on round shapes, but the explosion of the structure results in almost aggressive cuts. The former would also be more fragile to create in the street, because angular shapes can be nested together without any gaps. I like this fractal and kaleidoscopic aspect. Unintentionally, I created shapes on some smaller pieces that people immediately tried to identify. But apart from commissions, my creations are abstract.
What are the particularities of working with volume in urban space? Everything is indeed a play of light with the mirror: it is the light that will construct the piece once it is installed.
My frame can be flat, but with a multitude of facets angled one on top of the other. What's interesting about volume is the interaction it allows: the same piece will allow a passerby to see themselves walking beneath it, to discover a tree or the blue sky—completely different reflections that one wouldn't be able to perceive otherwise. The mirror then becomes a kind of mirage. We glimpse small details of life embedded in these triangles that will jump out at us, whereas we would generally miss them. These plays of reflections in the street are purely accidental. Discovering this effect is an added surprise, even if it doesn't always work. This is also why I no longer want to place plants in certain spots, because a mirror positioned at a certain angle can become an oven that risks scorching the plant in the summer. Whereas without plants, each facet will reflect the sun and scatter the light in all directions.
By playing on this fragmented aspect, you construct mirrors in which we cannot see ourselves, while allowing your pieces to occupy more space on the walls, in a form of projection.
I like this slight reversal of roles. A mirror is made for seeing oneself; however, if you stand in front of one of mine, you can't see your own reflection. Instead, you'll see the world around you. But this fragmented dimension also creates movement, enlarges the piece, makes it easier to transport, while playing on the idea of bursting forth, of explosion. At first, I knew nothing about the street and would just hang out with everyone else in Butte-aux-Cailles. Now, I seek more isolation, and these facets help me spread out without anyone getting too close to the central element. There's nothing malicious about it; it's more my way of taking possession of a section of wall.
Through your collaborative installation of streetlights/stained glass in Butte-aux-Cailles, you begin to work with color, while moving from a reflection on reflection to one on transparency. In fact, these are pieces that come alive at night, unlike mirrors.
Stained glass is a material that evokes a childhood love. While the medium of glass remains the same, as does the basic technique, the result interacts completely differently with its surroundings. Unlike a mirror, which is neutral when installed and takes on the colors of the world around it, stained glass, through the interplay of light, interacts with urban landscapes. On a gray day, the image placed upon it will be visible; on a sunny day, it will be transparent; while at night, the different facets will be visible, their reflections casting colorful hues on the surroundings. I would like to continue exploring this passion, but to do so, I need to find suitable surfaces, as it would be pointless if simply placed on a wall.
THE ELEGANCE OF THE VANDAL
There is a discrepancy between the technique you use, which requires lengthy preparation and has a limited production capacity, and your desire to "bomb" the streets.
I have a graffiti artist's mentality, but the medium doesn't really suit it, being expensive and requiring a lot of equipment. Initially, I wanted to place large pieces all over the Butte-aux-Cailles neighborhood, but now I want to expand a bit elsewhere in Paris (my largest piece is currently located at Gare du Nord). However, I also have a problem with materials, because all the mirrors I stick up in the street are recycled objects, and I can't find as many as I used to. That's why I want to make micro-pieces, so I can stick up more of them while conserving my surface material. I plan to place a thousand of them in the streets. In Paris, we live in an impersonal anthill. Every slightly specific element, like a punk with a mohawk, represents a form of protest. For me, it's a "Hello, I exist." Since it is possible to cover huge areas with spray paint for a few euros, I decided to cut out some stencils so I could use them when I run out of mirrors.
The desire to place a thousand pieces in public space does not convey the same view of the street, testifying to a dimension that is both more impersonal and invasive.
I've started making small pieces because I'm increasingly short on mirrors. I planned to glue a thousand, but perhaps I'll only use a hundred. That doesn't mean I'll stop gluing larger ones. Indeed, if a mirror is used to decorate a space, my smaller facets won't be striking or completely captivating. For budgetary reasons, I use outdoor mirrors for my street art, either while walking around or when someone points me in the right direction, but I also sometimes use glass for my backgrounds. Creating three-dimensional pieces, with the cutouts and scraps, doubles or triples the surface area compared to a flat mirror.
Looking at your pieces, one might think they are living room objects placed outdoors: where do you draw the line between art and design?
Many of my street art friends tell me that my work doesn't belong in the street, and that's precisely why I have to keep going. It's true that my pieces have a high production cost and that people don't imagine them in an urban setting. The two things that might not appeal to people in the street are vandalism or the aesthetic aspect. Those who prefer figurative art won't like the deconstructed look of my pieces. But all the better if they make people think.
You add a mirror frame to many of the pieces.
This gives them a "painting-like" quality. At first, I enjoyed "creating art" in the street this way. They enhanced the room, made it stand out. After stopping for a while, I'm going to start again because it also allows me to break the rules. Why shouldn't a mirror in the street have a frame, whereas it would be acceptable displayed in a living room? I don't want to copy others, but to do my own thing, without following artists who use the same medium.
A LOOK AT AN URBAN PRACTICE
The glued mirror is not inherently ephemeral, but adding plants to it, as well as the various interactions it undergoes, can make it quite sensitive.
When I place a mirror in the street, it's pristine, but if it rains or a pressure washer is used to remove the surrounding adhesive, it will quickly become dirty. This will bring the creation to life and allow it to evolve. I have a piece in Butte-aux-Cailles that hasn't been taken down since I started. The plants inside are beginning to mold. This maintains the ephemeral nature of the street; but like everyone else, I want my pieces to last as long as possible: you can't remove a mirror with a paintbrush, you'd need a chisel.
So what is your relationship to time with these pieces which, while enduring, will deteriorate over time, sometimes significantly?
Dirt can be washed away by the rain, and a little grime won't prevent the sun from reflecting its rays, even if the result is less brilliant. While it's always a bit annoying to see one's pieces in poor condition, it's the nature of street art, which fosters an evolution: even a torn piece will leave a trace, preserving this idea of a personal mark. For example, one artist draws hearts with putty on the back of his installations.
Do you have a photographic eye in relation to your work?
When I take a photo, I like to capture what the room will reflect, to keep that image in mind. I also check the mirror at all times of day (or night, for streetlights) to see how it interacts with its surroundings depending on the time of day. That's what I did, in particular, for one of my largest pieces, located not far from the Gare du Nord train station.
Do you consider urban art to be an artistic movement? If so, do you consider yourself part of it?
I'm pretty bad at art history, but after doing a little research, I've come to see urban art as a new era in art, following Cubism and other movements… This evolution isn't necessarily local, and I consider myself part of it even though I don't want to be. In any case, I'm categorized as belonging to it because I put up posters in the street, even though I reject the very idea of being pigeonholed. Urban art is vast, encompassing a wide range of mediums, and I prefer to pursue my own vision in my own corner of the world.
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