Kouka

KOUKA – THE BANTU WARRIOR, THE ONE WHO WANTED TO UNDERSTAND THE OTHER

---

COURSE

How did you become an artist?

It all depends on what you mean by becoming an artist. I started making my mark in the streets very simply, at the age of fourteen, by tagging. At the time, I was passionate about skateboarding, and after moving from Paris to Toulouse, a city I didn't know, I was able to discover it in a magical way, exploring it on my skateboard day and night. Toulouse is a fairly small city but very contrasting, with a very bourgeois city center and working-class neighborhoods. There was already graffiti there, something quite rare in the Parisian city center where murals were relegated to the outskirts. These colorful and vibrant graffiti were a real eye-opener, coming from a very gray and harsh city. I immediately grabbed markers and started tagging everywhere I went.

The passage towards the wall therefore occurred very naturally.

It was also the era when French rap and hip-hop culture were beginning to emerge. I belong to the generation that grew up naturally with these urban cultures. But initially, it had nothing artistic about it for me. It was a practice that was almost more about performance. Coming from a family of artists, I had an appreciation for art, but I didn't have this approach at all, which seemed completely abstract to me at the time. Until I finished high school, I continued doing graffiti, before my mother had a serious talk with me after picking me up from the police station: if that's what I loved, I had to learn what art was. So she encouraged me to pursue it, and that's how, after training as an advertising decorator, I enrolled at the Beaux-Arts. But it was from my fourth year onward that my practice truly took shape, and I started painting on canvas; the first three years were more focused on music and video.

It is also from this moment that your artistic thinking develops.

Absolutely. When I arrived at art school, I was quite shocked to see that I was the only Black student—even though it's a common occurrence—and since I was part of a rap group at the time, I was immediately labeled a rapper, therefore considered uncultured. Furthermore, between 2000 and 2005, everyone was interested in performance art, photography, and installations, believing that painting was dead and had gone out of fashion. Being the school's "tag artist," I kept a low profile for three years before wondering why tagging wasn't considered art. I didn't understand why it couldn't be. I'd been doing it for eight years, and I started using this experience I'd gained in the streets for my work, first in video, then in painting.

THE HUMANITY WARRIOR

Your work explores our relationship with others, particularly through the lens of language. The name Bantu, in fact, stems from a misuse of the word "humanity," reminiscent of the legend of the kangaroo (when the English naturalist Joseph Banks, aboard the Endeavour commanded by Captain James Cook, pointed out a grey kangaroo to his local interlocutor, the latter replied "gangurru," meaning "I don't understand you," transcribed in 1770 as "kangooroo" or "kanguru"). To access the Other, one must first understand them.

This question of words is crucial. I am mixed-race, the child of two different cultures that struggle to understand and coexist with each other, and I believe that misunderstanding always stems from a question of language: a word that means something different to one person than to another. When I was called a graffiti artist, the word had a pejorative connotation for those who used it, whereas for me it was a form of recognition. I faced a dilemma where I didn't know whether to embrace the label or be ashamed of it. My work, in its broadest sense, speaks to the perspective brought to an image, because I believe that an image will have as many meanings as there are people who look at it. Each person, with their own history and culture, will appropriate it and see it resonate differently within them. But it works in exactly the same way with words. Back when I was in a rap group, this music wasn't mainstream like it is today, but it was considered violent, and those who made it were labeled "suburbanites" or "uneducated." The public was more focused on the image rap projected than on the actual content of the lyrics. Booba is one of the most controversial rappers today, yet his lyrics are studied at university because he's such a good writer. The story of the Bantu is central to this double meaning and double interpretation. It came into my life unexpectedly, but it was a summary of my daily experiences that perfectly illustrates this disconnect in perspectives.

In the Fine Arts era, this question of our relationship to others also involved the gaze. In your book, you talk about your experience, which evokes that of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, who writes in Americanah: «"I became Black when I arrived in the United States."». It's an identity that is assigned to you by the gaze.

This is a major problem in our society, and it's the story of my life: instead of cultivating individuality, we prioritize assimilation. I'm the youngest of seven children, the only mixed-race one. In my predominantly white school, I was always the only Black student, and when I visited my father in Congo, I was always white. At art school, I was the rapper; with my band, I was the artist. Ultimately, I was fortunate enough to avoid assimilation anywhere, because all it took was going somewhere else for me to be perceived differently. This fueled a search for a kind of universal truth that would be the sum of each of our perspectives.

The Bantu warrior starts from a figure located in space and time, taking on a global dimension over the years, while noting that its meaning evolves depending on where one is placed.

The idea of the Bantu warrior was initially contextual. I was in Africa, at a time when I was still doing a lot of graffiti. There wasn't any there, meaning that for me, there was no reason to do it—I wasn't going to be the only graffiti artist, and since it wasn't a tourist destination, there was no chance that others would see my work. So I wanted to offer something that could lead to an encounter with the public, and this figure emerged. While the warrior may seem localized and contextual, I realized over time that the figure of the Black person wasn't just an African issue concerning only Africans. History has profoundly affected this continent for centuries, and its repercussions are still felt in every corner of the planet today. At first, I wasn't aware of this, because my perspective was limited to that of a Frenchman with family in the Congo. Traveling in the United States, South America, and even Russia, I realized that the perception of Black people was always different and very often completely fantasized. This is what's most shocking: the fantasy surrounding the Black figure, stemming from centuries of propaganda. They have always been considered the foreigner, the one who came from elsewhere, the one who was brought here and had to be assimilated. This fantasy becomes more complex depending on the country, and that's what interested me: each time I painted this same figure in a new place, I discovered a new vision that added another layer of singularity to this character.

The question of temporality also comes into play: the perception one might have of your warrior evolves according to current events – such as what is happening today in the United States. This creates a dichotomy between things deeply embedded in your work and how it can be discovered and understood by someone today.

With current events, the way we view this figure is changing is accelerating. It's a long-term project, ultimately reflecting the extremely long history of slavery and then colonization. I spent three, five, then ten years on this figure before deciding that publishing a book would allow me to move on to something else. Ultimately, I realize that the issue is constantly being revisited because it remains unresolved, given the many generations, beliefs, and deeply ingrained cultural biases involved. But attitudes are evolving, just like those surrounding street art: a few years ago, we were considered thugs, whereas today we're invited to festivals all over the world.

THE STREET, A SPACE FOR POLITICAL CREATION

Your figure of the Warrior of the Congo River shows that every creation escapes the artist from the moment it is received by the public, that it retains a part that cannot be anticipated.

Not all artists will necessarily agree with me, but once a work is finished, it escapes our control. It's like the myth of Frankenstein, or in religion, God creating humankind. In my opinion, every creation escapes its creator, who arrives with an intention and an idea but will find themselves confronted by the gaze of another person with a completely different background, who will see and ultimately interpret their work in a different way. Painting is a way for me to communicate, allowing me to tell people who I am. Their gaze and the exchange I have with the viewer serve as a mirror, helping me understand why I create and how it can be interpreted.

You regularly emphasize the role of anger in the creative act.

Anger is part of my creative drive. Art is a means of communication for me. Going into the street without permission is almost a political act; it's claiming a freedom I don't have. I impose a drawing that wasn't requested, which might seem violent, even though I understand the implications of that word. For me, it's a way to express myself because, yes, I come from a world that makes me angry, even though I'm a fairly positive and humanist person. I strongly believe in the goodness of humanity, but I'm angry at the system and its inequalities. Half my family comes from Paris and eats macarons, while the other half starves. It's possible to verbalize this injustice if you have the oratorical skills of a lawyer or a politician. That's not my case, so I've chosen to express myself through images. If I didn't have this anger inside me, I wouldn't be interested in painting for the sake of painting. Many artists say they're there to beautify the city, but I'm not interested in putting flowers on walls: if I want to see flowers, I go to the countryside. My driving force is this anger, expressed positively and channeled into my work.

So the street is, for you, a unique space for creation because it is political?

Painting in the street is first and foremost a political act. We talk about public space—which supposedly belongs to everyone—but it's governed by a law that forbids painting there, thereby forbidding free expression. It's in the face of this contradiction that I've granted myself the right to paint in the street. I also do it to try to challenge a certain kind of injustice. Since the age of fifteen and my rap days, I've told myself that when I've made millions, I'll go on television to denounce these injustices. I haven't made it in music, but I have an enormous public space, the whole world, the walls of all the major cities, on which I give myself the right to question the place of Black people, the notion of freedom, that of public space, but also what the ideas of education and transmission should look like.

It therefore serves as your sounding board.

The street, for me, is a museum without walls. The role of a museum is to transmit knowledge, by placing objects there that will allow future generations to understand the era in which we live. The street is the same to me, and I hope that when future generations see these dirty, gray, graffiti-covered, and barbed-wire-clad cities, they will wonder what we have done.

You regularly talk about no culture Could you elaborate on what you mean by that term?

This term no culture is a subject of controversy, and I keep coming back to it to try to understand it through people's eyes. I don't deny culture, which is essential and part of life: we are all born with a culture. For me, this means two things: first, that cultures are not fixed; you can have one, embrace another when you arrive in a new city, so that over the years the two blend and become a third. A museum can show the culture of an era, but in my opinion, anyone who considers it a model for life and shuts themselves away within it is mistaken, because the world is constantly evolving. But in no culture There is also, particularly in France, a deep-seated fear of being invaded by other cultures. This fear makes no sense to me, because French culture is enriched by all those that have embraced it. This term also refers to a very personal dimension: I don't claim one culture over another, but I fully accept being the product of several of them, whether French, Congolese, or American. Ultimately, it's a slogan that invites others to go beyond their own culture to see what unites us, the fact that we are all human. There are seven billion human beings on Earth, which means just as many cultures, because ultimately a culture is nothing more than a personal perspective on a given culture. My father will have a vision of Congolese culture that his brother will not share.

This idea also contains an element of provocation: France is a country where culture is highly valued, and that's all to the good. But this overvaluation also carries a risk of withdrawal and isolation. In Congo, the concept of culture doesn't really exist; there are no museums, galleries, cinemas, or theaters, because art is present everywhere: a wedding will involve eight days of festivities with theater, dance, songs, and fashion. The arts are part of the tradition and embrace the world on a daily basis. But there is no culture of culture, which explains, in particular, why African countries struggle to promote it to the rest of the world. The most important thing is not to forget our human nature and to keep in mind that there are people like us sleeping in tents right next door and dying of hunger.

THE WORK AND TIME

What is your relationship to the ephemeral nature of things?

There's always a bit of ego that hurts an artist when their work disappears, but graffiti taught me to accept that a piece might be disliked, erased, or covered over, and I'm completely detached from that. Even before I was an artist, I did graffiti, and all my money went into it, even though my work could be gone an hour later. It's part of my culture, and I think it's a good thing because artists of my generation learned this way to maintain humility towards their creations. When I see people getting offended because their work wasn't treated the way they wanted, I tell myself that in public spaces, which are supposed to belong to everyone, there's no reason why anyone should be able to permanently appropriate a place, especially if it's not their own home.

Do you think there can be masterpieces of urban art, despite its ephemeral nature?

This is clearly evident in the works of Banksy or JR: when the latter creates an installation at the Louvre, it lasts less than twenty-four hours and yet can be considered a masterpiece. Today, this relationship to time is no longer so relevant because, with social media, the artwork endures far beyond its intended lifespan. Today, the creation of an artist working on a piece in the depths of a village may not be seen by anyone, but it is potentially seen by millions online. This relationship to time and context has therefore evolved: it is not inherent to art, but is an integral part of our era. In my opinion, a work of art no longer needs to be preserved as those of the great masters were, who used egg yolk preparations or layers of varnish to ensure their pieces lasted. The object itself no longer necessarily needs to be preserved to be a great work of art.

Do you think, however, that the work will exist in the same way through its mere image?

It's not the same thing at all, but it's as if the internet has given art an additional dimension. However, I'm a painter, and for me, a painting is something to be experienced, an encounter. With a large format, it's possible to enter the work, to see the texture, and an image will never replace that direct experience. Yet, there's no doubt that the internet offers a new dimension to art: if you look at JR's creations, they don't demonstrate anything particularly masterful in terms of form, being prints on paper. However, he has fully embraced his era, bringing them to life through networks and images. This brings us back to the notion of culture: he cultivates his work through the internet, even if it is ephemeral. Whether one likes his work or not is a given.

From the point of view of collective memory, the work discovered only through photography would not arouse any emotional connection.

There is indeed a break. When I painted the Albatar castle, it was a squat. After six months, we were evicted, but the paintings remained on the walls for five years, and a great many people saw them. When they started to fade, I received several messages asking me to do something. After all those years, I considered it part of those ephemeral works, that I had other things to do. Then, with the accumulation of messages, I realized that people had taken such ownership of these works that they refused to see them disappear, even though I had initially painted them for my own enjoyment. While they wanted them to stay, was I going to be selfish and tell them I didn't care? That's why I became involved in this conservation work. Indeed, I think a work of art must have a sensory aspect, something that touches the viewer, and once it's merely documentation, it shifts to an intellectual level. But I believe that through a book and photographs, it's possible to bring it back. For people who don't know it, it can't be as powerful as seeing it in person. On the other hand, for those who remember it, seeing it again in images or videos is a generator of emotions, allowing them to relive the experience. Art has this capacity to rekindle emotions like Proust's madeleines, and that's also one of the reasons why I've been recreating this warrior for many years: the person who sees it in the street will remember Albatar Castle and what they felt. This partially recovered feeling can thus enrich the person experiencing it again. That's why I insisted afterward on being able to recover several windows, each weighing nearly two hundred kilos.

Artaud writes in To put an end to masterpieces that these objects must speak to the times in which we live; if they are no longer appropriate, we must detach ourselves from them. Conversely, Arendt believes that what distinguishes a work of art from a utilitarian object is its timeless dimension. In your opinion, does a masterpiece acquire its power through its resonance within a particular era or through its timeless dimension?

I firmly believe that things repeat themselves: if we look at the Raft of the Medusa From our contemporary perspective, it speaks to us because it refers to events happening today. Therefore, I tend to believe that it is its timeless nature that defines a work of art and a masterpiece. I have sometimes created in response to current events, but we live in an era where information overlaps so much that if we only react to it, then we are no longer artists, but rather columnists or journalists. However, in my opinion, the artist must adopt a stance that embodies timeless reflection while resonating with current events: this is precisely what forges the timelessness of the work.

ON URBAN ART

What is your relationship with photography?

My immediate reaction would be to say that my photography doesn't constitute a work of art, because I'm not a photographer and I use it to archive images. However, I paint from photographs, which are therefore both the starting point and the culmination of my work. Indeed, for me, a work of art exists as soon as it's photographed, because it can then disappear the next day. Nevertheless, I think that great painting came to a halt with the arrival of photography. There was a great void in painting after the war, and photography changed our relationship to the image, occupying such a powerful place that it has become an accepted truth. Yet a photograph bears witness to a moment that is dead, past, that is linked to nostalgia. It's not the reality of the moment, and people tend to forget that: this is why I continue to paint, focusing on the reality of the present, the reality of creation. The painting lives until I decide to photograph it (because then it will no longer change), the photo marking the passage from the present moment to the past moment.

In your opinion, is urban art an artistic movement? Do you consider yourself part of it?

I don't really consider myself a street artist because I'd been painting in the street for ten years when the term first appeared. However, I think we shouldn't bite the hand that feeds us, because it's the advent of this artistic movement that has allowed us to work, to make a living, to share our work, to gain recognition, whereas when I started out, we had to hide. Street art, for me, is a movement in spite of itself: the previous artistic movements of the 20th century...^e Every century has had its leaders, manifestos, and small groups. Even graffiti has been codified: today, a novice can learn the difference between lettering and outlines. Street art arrived at a time when art was suffering, inward-looking, elitist, and misunderstood. Thus, for me, this term was created by cultural institutions, museums, and auction houses to breathe new life into something that no longer interested anyone. Does this invalidate the idea of a movement? I don't think so, because for years it was believed that you had to go to art school to become an artist. Street art allowed the development of a popular practice developed by self-taught individuals. These people became artists without necessarily having formal artistic training, unlike many people encountered at art school. Therefore, for me, it is a movement that is neither elitist nor intellectual, but popular, one of whose fundamentals has been its ability to be widely disseminated thanks to the internet.

However, not all street artists are great artists: most are simply good communicators or young, bourgeois types looking for a thrill and a bit of fun. As with any great movement, time will sort things out, and the artists who are renowned today may not be the ones who will be remembered, while others may be rediscovered as geniuses. In the end, I find myself part of this movement despite myself, invited to festivals and group exhibitions. Perhaps we all have something in common: the desire and drive that pushes us to create, and the courage to display it in the street for the world to see. As for the rest, everyone has their own story, their own culture. I accept all labels: artist, street artist, contextual painter, contemporary, or African. As Rocé, an artist I greatly admire, says: «"When you put my foot in one box, do you know where the other one is?"»

This archive project is independent — Offer a coffee