Seth
THE ENCOUNTERS OF THE TRAVELLING PAINTER
THE JOURNEY
You open your book Globe-Painter through a series of rules that encourage reflection on how to create while travelling: «"No 'vandalism' in a place where graffiti doesn't exist. Represent or write things understandable to the local population. No damage to areas affected by poverty. Try to meet local artists and behave like a guest."‘
I have even more rules now. They're rules I follow for myself. It's a matter of respect that I find natural: since I'm going to be painting on people's walls before leaving, I don't want to do just anything. I'm not at home, not in my own country, so I'm going to make sure the painting can be understood and accepted. I don't want to cause any trouble. However, I have sometimes followed local artists who were doing vandalistic graffiti so I could paint with them.
When did you realize that the Other would play an essential role in your approach?
I understood this when I started traveling, particularly in South America, painting in the streets. In France, graffiti was for other graffiti artists. It was an illegal practice, which often forced us to paint in vacant lots or near railway tracks when we needed time. Conversely, in South America, it was much easier to find places visible to everyone: when I knocked on a door to ask if I could paint a wall, people usually agreed. In Latin America, there's also a social dimension that immediately appealed to me, far removed from the provocation or self-promotion that was so common in France. My first drawings in Brazil depicted an exotic vision of Rio, filled with violent men and scantily clad women… Arriving in a favela to paint, surrounded by armed men, I understood the violence that existed there, and I didn't want to represent it. That's how I painted children for the first time.
CALM INNER, CHAOS OUTER
There is a contrast between the apparent calm of your characters and the chaos that surrounds them, which gives your paintings a play on presence and absence.
I always try to create this contrast. In Brazil, since violence already existed, there was no point in depicting it. It seemed more interesting to me to paint on a wall or in a public space, creating characters that would encourage viewers to discover the city in a new light. The choice to paint children, beyond the fact that there are many of them in the streets, allows me to speak to everyone; to children, of course, but also to adults. It allows me to address serious and complex subjects in a more innocent way, almost without people realizing it.
Why did your characters one day stop looking towards the street? Painting in Pangukrejo, Indonesia, you explained, regarding one painting: «"I don't know if she's sad or happy. She's sitting down, and I think she'll get up. I prefer to think she's looking to the future rather than the past."»
By not showing the character's emotions, the viewer can identify with them and use their imagination. I don't impose a point of view, whether sad or joyful. Since this is a public space, I felt it was important that the person viewing my work could bring a little of themselves to it, unfold their imaginary world within it. What interests me is the dialogue with the viewer; not showing the face strengthens this connection. It is on this absence that the viewer relies to bring the painting to life.
You often choose to paint places that are emotionally charged but not visible.
But the artwork then travels thanks to photography and the internet. It's like a three-cushion shot. I paint first for myself, for my own enjoyment. Then, to bring joy to the person who lives near the painting and sees it every day. Finally, for the rest of the world through photography. To achieve this, I always try to ensure the figure has a connection to the location, whether through clothing or other objects.
PAINTING TO PLAY WITH THE WORLD
In what way is the street a unique space for creation?
The street is a vibrant, energetic place. It nourishes me and my work. I try to adapt to reveal the place, its architectural, social, political, and cultural context. Ninety percent of my work stems from an idea. I like to take my time; in fact, I'm becoming increasingly slower. I try to choose quiet locations and see what happens. Being in a rush doesn't necessarily interest me.
Through these journeys, you demonstrate a deep love for the humanity of cities.
I don't know if it's love, but rather an inspiration that nourishes and motivates me. Painting is what I love to do most, to play with the world and create with what already exists. Everything else is more laborious. When you paint in the street, you confront the imaginary and the real. It's this contrast that's interesting. As the paintings evolve over time, you realize that after having inscribed on Reality is reality itself, working on our work.
There is then a paradoxical dimension between the imaginary one has of a place and the act of returning to confront one's own memory.
This isn't always the case: for one thing, it doesn't apply to large walls. There's no point in doing so except watching the paint fade in the sun. But when I'm at ground level or haven't asked permission, a lot happens. The fading of my paintings interests me because every addition speaks to the context in which the work was created. Whether or not people take care of your work, seeing how it evolves, tells you everything about a place. For example, when in Indonesia, after painting in a village, people kept the paintings to build houses all around, it's not just pleasing, it also has meaning. As for Paris, they're tagged and covered in obscenities; that also tells you about the people here.
Do you think the street can be considered a breeding ground for artists?
When I travel, I'm not only interested in meeting other urban artists, but also traditional, outsider, or naive artists. I've had the opportunity to collaborate in China with peasant women who paint in their kitchens. When I travel, meeting only people who think like me, who drink the same coffee and beer as me, isn't really what I'm looking for. In every country, there are artists who work with their traditional culture, trying to express it in a modern way: these are the people I love to meet.
THE CURRENT SEARCH
What is your relationship to photography? Your books are travel journals, collections of moments and faces that testify to a strong connection to memory.
For me, photography is very important: there's the idea, the execution, and the photograph. My first works were primarily photography books: they were my holiday journals, like a slideshow from someone returning from a trip. At the time, I wasn't very talented and I tried to fill the gaps by showing the surroundings. In Globe-Painter, There are few paintings; it's the story that's interesting. In Extramuros, I'm still playing with the idea of a travel journal, but there are no more drawings. But in the next one, there will only be walls because now I'm able to link the photograph of the painting with its context.
Is it this search for the moment that counts?
Yes, of course. By planning as little as possible. Like when I went to Jordan to paint one wall, only to end up painting three and deciding to go back again next year. Or spending a week on a large wall on Rue Mouffetard, talking and eating with the shopkeepers and residents after a woman fought to get me to paint that huge facade. That's what I'm looking for: living in the moment. Like anyone who expresses themselves, I started painting out of a need for recognition. Over time, I understood that this quest was futile, that the real goal was sharing and experiencing moments. It's for these encounters that I paint in the street.
Is painting more of a means than an end for you?
Why should it be an end in itself? Painting, like travel, is merely a pretext for connecting with others. It could just as easily have been music, writing, dance… Painting allows me, above all, to experience things I wouldn't otherwise experience, to go to places I wouldn't normally go, to meet people I wouldn't otherwise meet. Through painting, I speak of my time, of what I see, of things more or less complex, without causing offense, because by provoking in the street, you only reach those who think like you. Conversely, by innocently expressing complex things, you can touch others.
Do you think there are ephemeral masterpieces?
The notion of a "masterpiece" seems outdated to me. It no longer corresponds to our lifestyles. This stems from the fact that a word like "Art" has become distorted, applied to things that have nothing to do with each other. Can we compare Maurizio Cattelan's advertising banana to Michelangelo's Pietà? The moment a urinal entered a museum, everything became art. The artist is a marketing product whose value depends on whether they have been exhibited in a particular museum, gallery, or entered a specific collection. Their value is determined by the market, which creates imaginary money through them. Consequently, what matters most is recognition and visibility. A gallery owner's first instinct is to check the number of followers on Instagram. We must be aware of the times we live in, not be naive, while still continuing to dream and have fun.
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