Agathon
PAINTING AS SWORD AND SHIELD
COURSE
How did you become an artist? When did you start out busking?
It wasn't the same moment at all. I started painting at the end of my final year of high school, when I was in the Fine Arts track. I loved graffiti, and one day my teacher showed me a book by Robert Combas. She sensed this pivotal moment in my artistic journey, because I very quickly adopted his technique to start painting, and it was from that moment that I felt like I was creating my first pieces. I was painting faster and faster, on increasingly larger canvases, like old blinds, to the point where I wondered how I was going to manage my final exams. Oddly enough, I was asked to paint walls quite early on, but these were commissioned pieces, and I didn't consider myself to be doing street art at the time. The street is about finding your place, having the courage to go there, telling yourself that you're doing something that isn't allowed, in order to try and make your mark. But when I was painting those commissions, I saw others doing graffiti and didn't feel legitimate. Then I spent two years in a large gallery on Rue Dauphine, which I imagined would be my big break, but I quickly realized I was very unhappy there, to the point that it even showed in my paintings. They put me in handcuffs, told me which colors to use. At one point, I even found myself with my paints in my studio, not knowing what to do anymore. It took me several months to recover before I could paint in my own style again. Leaving that place was very difficult, but it's what made me realize that the best and most beautiful gallery was the street.
Agathon also refers to Plato: is there a resonance between the philosopher and your name?
Still in my final year of high school, I had a philosophy teacher who was really cool, but I had three hours of class with her every Friday morning. After half an hour, I'd be asleep; it was unbearable. And it was my final year of high school, and we were studying Plato's Symposium. At one point, I heard "Agathon," looked up, and answered, "Yes?" even though I was half asleep. She replied, "At least now we know how to call you to wake you up." It stuck: I started signing my last assignments with that name, and it's even on my ID today.
The image of the seahorse seems to appear at the moment you tip over into the street. Why?
I've done dozens of odd jobs. While I was managing the sound and lighting at the National Conservatory of Music, I had to attend all the jazz concerts, which I absolutely loathe. One evening, during a double bass lesson, I took refuge in the dressing room, where a student had forgotten his pencil case and notepad. I turned on a TV monitor, took out a page, and drew a seahorse. You have to be recognizable on the street, so it allows me to avoid wearing very different things all the time.
REPETITION AS ARMOR
Did you find this profusion of colours and this black outline in your first pieces?
When I saw Robert Combas's work, it reminded me of graffiti artists' techniques. I've always thought they were incredibly talented. I adopted that style like armor, feeling a greater mastery with the brush than with the spray can. The spray can is exhilarating because it sprays paint, there's no rinsing, and you can keep a few cans in your bag. It offers a freedom that brushes don't.
Your work seems marked by a very repetitive, almost obsessive relationship to space.
When I'm applying my colors—which, coming first, serve as my base—I often feel like I'm facing a mess, like I'm just doing whatever. It's with the black that I begin to see my painting and its forms emerge, eventually returning to my original idea. Repeating the same gesture always reassures me, gives me the feeling of being in a cocoon, a familiar space. It's a protective shell. I was happy creating stained glass windows, made of motifs repeated thousands of times. But I also need to be alone, in total introspection. I can't work with people, and if I feel something overwhelming me, it's unbearable. I don't know how those who paint in public manage, because in those large events, there's always noise and people coming up to talk to you.
Why do you feel this need to seek protection through your work?
I'm extremely anxious, I don't really like crowds or noise, and I have a particular need to protect myself from the outside world. Many artists have a large following because they're very open, they reach out to people, which I rarely do. For me, a place has to be like the Cabinet d'Amateur for me to want to come and see other artists' work; otherwise, I can't. But there, you feel like you're in a bubble. At first, I wondered how I was going to manage since I didn't know the gallery or the people who frequent it. I immediately felt at home there; otherwise, I wouldn't have come back. It's a pivotal place in my career, and meeting Patrick Chaurin was crucial. There are so many things that frighten me; it's so difficult to overcome shyness and put yourself out there that you need to work in environments where you can feel reassured. This is the most important thing for me to work with a gallery today.
You pursue your artistic career alongside your work as a lifeguard. In your opinion, does your work convey a cohesive identity?
That's absolutely right: swimming saved my life, that's why I put so much energy into it. It allowed me to escape my body: seriously injured surfing, I was bedridden for three months and suffered from back pain for years. It was through swimming that I was able to rebuild myself, challenging myself, first by gaining over fifteen kilos, then by earning my lifeguard certification after just one year of swimming, which is unheard of, especially for someone my size. My painting technique and being in the water are protective elements for me and allow for this introspection. In that respect, water and waves are very different. I've tried to go back in the waves since my accident, but it's impossible, there's nothing I can do. The fear is there even though I'm more than capable, both in swimming and lifesaving.
Would you like to keep both of your activities in parallel?
It's truly a calling to earn a living, to put yourself through such hard work. I could have stayed at that big gallery, producing a quota of artwork for a certain amount of money to make ends meet. But if it means churning out paintings that don't reflect who I am, it's just not possible. I now think that becoming a lifeguard would be a good fit for me.
THIS IS MY BODY
Does your painting have a connection with religion? You said in an interview that one of your first pieces was called "Little Christ" and you have been working for years on a project called "This is my body".
This is my body It was only really finished last week. It represents several years of painting and writing. Although it's complete, I've never exhibited it, and most of the pieces have never been shown to anyone. It's a work on canvas, an installation not at all intended for the street; it would even require a soundscape. For me, there's Agathon in the street and This Is My Body, which is my life's project. These are two completely different states of mind. I'm a total atheist, but this project explores the body's memory in the transmission of genocide. How do we preserve, across generations, a trauma we haven't personally experienced? In my memory, there's the Holocaust, which is why I want to convey this message. My grandparents were deported, and it's almost surreal to think that this subject is so close to me.
Genetic memory is the body's recording of trauma that it has not experienced, but it also raises questions about how to share it.
It's difficult for me to put it into words, but I hope this series will come to fruition. I work alone, but I have a radio, and I discovered Rithy Panh's story through an interview. Hearing him talk about the Cambodian genocide, I felt like I was reliving the tastes and smells; it was almost unbearable. Genocides are similar in this respect: they kill down to the very core, with the intention of erasing generations without leaving a trace. It's a scandal I will always carry with me. However, I didn't look into the study published in the 2010s on the subject because I was afraid it would be sensationalized.
How does one transition from a family heritage to a genetic memory of the intimate?
It's the details, the everyday things, that are unsettling. I once worked in a studio at the Opéra Bastille where large pots were used to soak brushes in acetone. I couldn't go near them without feeling horrified. Later, I understood what they reminded me of. I train at the Butte-aux-Cailles swimming pool, which is one of the most beautiful pools in Paris, with an outdoor section. But across the street, there's a brick building with a chimney that, at night when it's dark, frightens me, gives me a knot in my stomach.
What kind of writing work are you doing on this project?
It's difficult to "write" a statement of intent. Carole helped me develop several ideas because it's not always easy to find the right words, but it's a project that deserves a proper text. Its graphic origin lies in the stained-glass windows of Chartres Cathedral: I found them so beautiful that I drew inspiration from them to create medallions, skeletons, and men without physical bodies. Yesterday, television showed mass graves in Iraq, people who were tortured, killed, and buried in these holes. They're now reconstructing skeletons so that families can recover their sons. That's when I thought of "This is my body." When only bones remain, we realize that we are all the same.
REGISTER IN THE STREET
In what way is the street a unique space for creation?
The street is my gallery. It's a place to convey messages, whereas "real" galleries often shy away from politics, as if it were possible to be an artist without engaging in it. I want to make a statement while creating beautiful things. To speed things up, I started using paper, but I want to continue working with Dibbon, which allows me to create beautiful pieces that will last, even if some people try to tear them down.
What is your relationship to this ephemeral dimension?
I don't necessarily take it very well. If someone wants one of my pieces that badly, they should just ask. I'd rather give a seahorse to someone who saw it in the street and liked it than have someone grab a hammer and spatula and go steal it. I've done a lot of collage work, also using tiles or Dibond, which are less ephemeral. Many people have told me that this material is too refined, but nothing is too refined for the street. Sometimes you get sprayed with black paint or have your piece torn down: that's the way it is, but I can't live without it anymore.
How do you perceive the presence of time in your work?
When I look at what others are doing, I always ask myself if it will last. I've always set myself a rule: not to do anything "easy," not to react to a trend, which is often the case today, because then you stray from art into the hype, which is pointless. I always try to create a piece sophisticated enough to stand the test of time, so that three years later it won't be discarded like a disposable item of clothing. I also spend a lot of time on my street art pieces, to establish myself there and say, "I'm here." I also try to work with durable materials and won't install anything that can't withstand the rain.
Do you consider urban art to be an artistic movement? If so, do you consider yourself part of it?
I don't know: I'd like to be forty years from now to see what art history will have remembered of this movement. I'm sick of seeing the word "street art" written everywhere, when most of these artists take no risks at all. Art is about taking risks: never venturing into illegality and calling oneself a street artist remains a mystery to me. Conversely, the graffiti movement was quite noble: painting trains, taking crazy risks… I don't understand how graffiti artists manage to create such beautiful pieces at night, under such pressure. For me, it's obvious that it's a form of art.
Art, therefore, would come from taking risks, whether personal or financial.
You risk your life when you're an artist. It's not a comfortable life: if I hadn't been an artist, I would have chosen a more meaningful profession. In my last job, I was cleaning toilets, hallways, and locker rooms at 6:30 in the morning: I think I had the skills to aspire to something else, but wanting to become an artist also involves these kinds of stupid jobs. Someone who stays in their comfort zone, who doesn't take risks, isn't an artist; otherwise, it would be too easy. And I feel that with urban art, we too often remain in that realm, namely developing a visually appealing image and doing PR to try and catch people's attention. There's nothing wrong with that, but for me, it's anything but art. An artistic movement is born from people who have a visceral cry. I remember an interview with Robert Combas where he recounted how one of his paintings had sold for tens of thousands of euros at auction, but that he only received three thousand francs at the time. I'd bet my life that some of today's street artists will be laughable when their work is looked at in thirty or fifty years. I feel a bit... lost[Qg1] I myself don't really know how to define myself. I work in the street, so is it urban art? Contemporary art? It makes me uncomfortable because it's not comfortable not to have a label, whereas today it seems that everything we do necessarily requires one.
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