CLAIRE COURDAVAULT

CLAIRE COURDAVAULT – WHEN THE BODY AND NATURE INTERTWIN

March 2019 – 2441 words

COURSE

How did you become an artist?

The first time I thought about it, I must have been five or six years old, and upon discovering Picasso's paintings, I told myself I was going to be like him. Yet I'd been warned that artists were incredibly talented but barely scraping by in Montmartre! I went on to study applied arts in my second year of high school, where drawing was merely a way to represent ideas—an interesting but quickly frustrating aspect. Later, while unemployed, I started creating art again using mixed media on vinyl. After several years, I finally had a breakthrough, and I held my first exhibition in a hair salon that had a gallery upstairs: it was more like a party with friends, with my artwork all around!

Drawing people on the subway, always carrying a sketchbook, I also found my first studio. This allowed me to meet several street artists like Alex, NoRules Corp, and JBC… The studio allowed me to enlarge my canvases, but I also did art programming. It was while finding a wall for Alex that he invited me to paint with him.

How did you adapt your work, moving from small surfaces to give it a new dimension in large format?

I believe the period when I painted that first mural also coincides with the time when I developed my graphic style. I increased the sizes without too much difficulty adapting, using the surface as it was. It was when I moved to much larger formats that it took on a technical dimension. The question then becomes more about changing tools.

I work on any surface: from sculpture to engraving, from glass to wood. It all depends on my intentions and the different projects. The wall is just a support, but it's the most powerful because it engages the whole body in the act of drawing. With my accumulations of detail, I work with graphic hypnosis. My drawing becomes a dance, something very physical. The dance becomes a trance. That's why, if I want to lead people into that state, the wall works well because of its size.

AN ORGANIC WORK

Entering into one of your drawings requires taking the time to decipher it. Your historical and mythological influences are reminiscent of South America.

At first, I told stories with elements that accumulated, then gradually I added motifs from my personal mythology to these symbols. They come from all over, working primarily from intuition to recreate blends, notably the skull which, while it refers to Native American traditions, is also part of our vanitas. The mural on Rue des Maronites was heavily inspired by this South American culture.

An organic dimension emerges from your work, particularly through its improvisational part, which recreates a connection between the living and what surrounds it.

Nature is the primary focus of my work. Connecting spirituality to nature is crucial, because in my opinion, it has no meaning without it. I identify as a feminist, and I came out as a witch two or three years ago. We live in the city, in a gritty and violent environment. The concrete jungle plagues us all, and street art is a way to heal ourselves from it. These interventions, these liberties taken, are beneficial and serve as an outlet. That's why I incorporate nature everywhere, to ward off the concrete. Understanding this entity takes many different forms depending on the moment, the symbolism, like choosing plants or various elements for a particular remedy.

You speak of tattooing as a way of understanding the medium and making the artwork inseparable from the material.

For me, it's a way of listening to the medium, of hearing what it has to say, how it wants to be treated, what tool to use: it's a question of merging. It's then about listening to the history of the place, the history of the people who live there. Tattooing is an adornment with a ritual dimension, and so is my drawing. If I paint a particular character, it's as if I'm with them while representing them.

You work on very disparate themes, ranging from spirituality to sexuality.

I'm a huge fan of Japanese prints from the Edo period. I wanted to pay homage to shunga because I wanted to explore eroticism: by mixing the drawings together, it created an erotic tapestry called canvas of enjoyment. But when I draw clouds or smoke, they are also often inspired by Japanese prints. I also look at African masks a lot.

How do you introduce an erotic dimension into your work?

In my opinion, the direct line inherently possesses an erotic charge. What would interest me is working on very small details, mixing... shungas to my murals, which would take on a hypnotic and far more erotic form than displaying pornography. For three years, I organized exhibitions at the Jardin d'Alice, inviting artists to explore this theme, which is so often misrepresented. Everyone has easy access to degrading content. We are faced with a societal dichotomy linked to body standards: what is imposed on women and men to be sexually attractive is insane. Art's response to these issues is very interesting because bodies are not smooth, but are all the more desirable for it.

THE SPIRITUAL NATURE OF CREATION

What is the role of performance in Street art?

The practice of street art incorporates the idea of performance because it involves pushing one's limits. When creating a mural in an abandoned space, every line counts in the moment; there's no preparatory drawing. If a line is botched, the artwork won't be great. Even though no one is around, it generates a tension, albeit a different kind of tension than that felt in a public space. But finding the right balance in the line amidst passersby can be just as tricky.

By working you aim to enter a trance state – that is to say, to put yourself outside of yourself.

While working, I reach altered states of consciousness, states that can be attained in many different ways. My drawing acts on me like meditation. The drawing process takes hours, but as soon as I lose track of time, different spaces open up, leading me into a kind of liberating trance. The subtlety lies in being able to share this feeling. When you create in the street, you achieve an incredible self-exposure. It's a very long process; many people come to talk to you, entering your physical space. Maintaining this connection between the public space and an inner state is a process that takes time to master. I think it also involves the accumulation of details, the repetition of gestures. A bit like monks who create mandalas for hours before destroying everything.

In such a rich construction, how do you manage to move from a personal practice to a universal feeling?

I never thought I was speaking to everyone. If you walk quickly without stopping, you won't notice my drawing. I don't wonder if everyone will like my work. It's a genuine exploration I undertake so that people can lose themselves in it, which involves losing myself in it. This hypnotic quality also comes from the abundance of curves: I don't use many straight lines.

RELATIONSHIP TO THE STREET

Do you feel that with Street art you are part of a pre-existing artistic movement?

Because I have a passion for art history, which I've had the opportunity to study, I'm familiar with these movements. For the first time, it's a global movement, without limits, impossible to categorize, with a multitude of different rules. By painting on walls in public spaces, I'm part of this history, but it was also important for me to cut my teeth as a vandal to truly become a part of it. I believe an artist is a researcher, not someone who follows a formula.

How is it different that this work takes place in the street?

Creating in the street is both a political and activist act; art is free and accessible to everyone. It's also a way to tell people's stories, which is a form of sharing that fosters incredible interactions. In June 2018, I painted the facade of a social café in the 18th arrondissement with Katjastroph.^e in the 16th arrondissement, in Château Rouge. We went to talk with the regulars at the café, which was created for elderly people from immigrant backgrounds. They told us their life stories, and we pieced together a narrative from them. It was for them that we painted, and we wouldn't have put our own personal worlds first.

What is your relationship to time in relation to your works and the ephemeral aspect of urban art?

The lifespan of the artworks varies greatly. The mural in the Goutte d'Or district is expected to last between three and four years, depending on the work they undertake, and so far it hasn't been tagged. The one at the community café is meant to last as long as possible; it's varnished and protected. But I know that for an exhibition, a mural might only last two days, and I've even had to repaint it white myself. I have no problem with it disappearing. I believe there's an almost magical connection between a piece and a place, and that the energy released during its creation remains within the walls. Graffiti, therefore, is an incredible form of energy that remains preserved in the places where it's displayed.

How does size change the composition? Do you plan the drawing in advance or do you keep it spontaneous?

It really depends on the production framework. When it comes to contracts generated by local authorities or where people have a say, I do a lot of research and composition work beforehand. I make detailed preparatory drawings, to scale with what I'm going to produce. There might also be consultation meetings with residents. However, I always leave room for improvisation, because even a precise drawing can, once enlarged, have its structure and details evolve. I also let things take over when I'm on site. Improvisation is very important in my work: if everything were strictly controlled, it would excite me much less.

CIRCE AND VANDAL FEMINISM

What do you think is the importance of the vandal?

I came to urban art in a roundabout way, through encounters that sparked my interest in the entire movement. I discovered graffiti through friends and their experiences, and I felt that to truly understand it from the inside, I needed to work as a vandal myself. During that time, I always carried a Posca marker with me, writing a lot of feminist messages. It was the message itself that resonated with me; I was doing less lettering and more drawing. Lettering led me to develop my own style, which is now appearing on walls.

What does vandalism allow you to do that your "official" practice does not?

The act of vandalism allows me to explore and find catharsis. I had to create a new persona, because it wouldn't have worked with my real name. I needed a name directly linked to my signature, one that would allow me to do whatever I wanted. This new persona is called Circe, after the sorceress. I find it funny to take on Circe's clothes and body to inscribe sex in the street. It's a very specific feminist stance, against rape culture and patriarchy.

This way of releasing anger by reclaiming a territory from which one is rejected is a very powerful political act. This catharsis of anger is found in many different art forms, but I think it has truly been able to save lives. Circe embodies this means of action: she is my graphic response to the #MeToo movement, and allows me to occupy public space more quickly and radically.

Circe is also a woman who is totally in control of her actions and proactive.

She's a magician and she transforms things. In relation to my work, she embodies my desire to create a kind of "matrimony" that gives women back their rightful place. It's a challenge for a woman to paint in public spaces. The vandalism allows me to paste up erotic drawings, whereas if I were to paint directly, I'd be constantly harassed. Sex is everywhere in advertising, but when a woman talks about it, it becomes political.

What are the differences in your representation of women in the street and in the workshop?

When I work alone, I have no censorship, whereas in public spaces, I adapt to the location. When I painted a thirty-meter-long mural in the Goutte d'Or neighborhood in collaboration with the women of the area, I first asked them what they wanted—color. I proposed a framework with powerful female figures that would give them strength. In particular, I drew the goddess Kali, in a very "calm" representation. The women of the neighborhood chose her because she is the protector of battered women. I didn't try to show bare breasts—which often happens in my studio work—because it's not part of the neighborhood's culture; it would be too strange for people, and the goal wasn't to offend them. That will be the role of Circe and her collages.

Is this a freedom you grant yourself in relation to yourself or to others?

Both, because I also have demands in my work as a visual artist; however, when I'm pasting, the energy isn't quite the same as that released during a direct drawing. In the end, I realize that I had set rules for myself, but I created a new persona precisely so I could break them. This new moniker allows me to go and paste things up, whereas in the rest of my practice I prioritize the gesture, which confers more magic.

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