Phantom Juan
PHANTOM JUAN – ATMOSPHERES OF THE FLOATING WORLD
COURSE
How did you become an artist? When did you start out busking?
It started in middle school with a group of friends. I lived in the Val-d'Oise, not far from Sarcelles. Learning to skateboard, we discovered this hip-hop world that was arriving from the United States in the mid-80s, while also having the streets to ourselves. But it really exploded when we talked from table to table in the classrooms: we drew, we replied to each other, it was a game played with markers that were sold under the table. We learned how to refill them, how to mix our own inks: it was all about experimentation. It was with a group who had gotten hold of spray paint cans that I first became interested in walls, watching them paint in a highway tunnel. While drawing appealed to me more, this practice seemed more improbable, almost abstract, especially since we had to hide to do it. Little by little, we went back up to paint on the exterior walls along the trains, since no one else could get up there. That's how we learned to use spray paint, doing graffiti outside in front of the passengers. I especially loved the b-boys, those iconic figures of graffiti culture with their chunky sneakers, like the ones drawn by Mode 2.
After those first steps, I had to stop for military service, then at twenty-three to pursue a professional training contract in Paris. Graffiti slipped my mind a bit. But I was discovering a city covered in graffiti: the closer you got to Paris, the more magnificent pieces stretched along the train lines. It was by sitting by the windows, watching the suburbs go by, that I learned to read graffiti and study its composition. Meeting Gilbert Petit influenced me in the early 2000s: he was then creating a dog in the style of Keith Haring. A girl I met in 2006 took me to the studios of graffiti artists and taggers in Belleville. Everything suddenly came flooding back: by following people in the streets, around the graffiti sites, I rediscovered an energy, a sense of shared purpose, without taking risks that didn't seem right for me. However, I wanted to return to pieces that would attract more attention than pure tagging, pieces that would have a connection with drawing.
REASSURING ORGANIC NIGHTMARES
How did your character, which evokes yōkai, Japanese demons, come about?
Two worlds have developed in parallel: I enjoy the sense of letting go that comes with going on a mission with a marker or spray paint in my pocket, the serendipity of encounters, or finding the perfect spot. But I also love illustration and studio painting. The character I chose for the street is a ghost born from the combined influence of Miyazaki and Moebius. These are two very organic and dreamlike worlds, carrying within them something mysterious, both unsettling and soothing. Through the ghost, I wanted to extend this idea of a reassuring nightmare, while also allowing myself to express inner feelings and come up for air during a period of my life that was a major upheaval. I learned to master these dark areas, which gradually became my forms. This is how life stories became intertwined with graphic influences.
This moment also caused a graphic break.
Yes, my drawing has become much darker, moving from very classic characters to something almost like Art Brut. Mastering drawing takes a lifetime: there are times when you feel better, and others when you feel worse. Here, it was about breaking with pre-existing influences of letters, colors, and shapes. I had to throw everything onto the paper, like when you doodle while on the phone. It did me so much good that I realized I needed it to live: drawing provides me with a vital balance. As time goes on, you realize that there are certain things you can explore further, opportunities offered by people like Patrick Chaurin of Cabinet d'Amateur. It's these fortunate encounters that allow you to get out a bit and show work that is very personal.
Plants play an important role in your compositions.
Sometimes the anatomical reference gives the impression of a vegetal invasion. It's not a real struggle, but a balance between the vegetation and a complementary element, be it an eye, a nose, or a mouth. This human detail creates a contrast: a face appears, but it isn't one. There's this idea of submersion, this thing that invades without destroying, that settles and then stops. I like it, but it remains an experiment. My drawing has evolved and will continue to evolve, through phases that suddenly make me feel good, in balance with myself and what I paint. Our perception and our sensations evolve over time. These changes aren't abrupt; you can see the process, of which fragments always remain.
A FLUID LINE
Your style possesses a dreamlike and organic dimension that testifies to a fluidity of forms.
This organic and ethereal style can adapt to any setting: it was created for use in collaborations with other artists, easily blending into lettering or other designs. I like knowing that with these shapes I can work around others without affecting their work and easily mix different styles.
It is also a balance between a graphic freedom and a mastery of form.
Recently in Montreuil, I painted a wall for which I had a vague idea of what I was going to do. It was a one-off spray-painting project, without being able to cover the wall completely, which had to remain raw, and also without being able to erase the result. Therefore, there's always a bit of letting go: I build a base and my form follows a movement, but I continue without a precise sketch, observing from a distance to see the final design emerge.
Do you compose your images beforehand or do you leave more room for improvisation?
During my transitional or research phases, I completely let go. These small forms, like filaments, often reappear but can quickly transform. Recently, I've been working with planetary motifs. I wanted to work within a controlled graphic format: the sphere. Because the background is black, it evokes a starless cosmos in which this planet, illuminated by light sources from below, simply floats. I wanted to create a slightly supernatural atmosphere, a series of worlds invaded by living forms, plants reminiscent of aquatic landscapes, anemones, to give them the appearance of an extraterrestrial environment. I need to lose myself in my image.
THE ROLE OF LIGHT & COLOR
Something akin to transformation, both graphically and in the process itself.
It feels as if these elements are mutating, as if there's another stage afterward. It's somewhat narrative: everyone can imagine something. I like working with the effects of light, which, by reshaping forms, allow me to tell a different story. Indeed, everything is light, and it shapes everything around us. By reflecting off the elements, it draws people into this microcosm.
Light plays a part in the composition, materializing the drawing, while also giving it an atmosphere.
Light is a starting point: I play with it as if it were a spotlight. My forms always contain many small details, but illuminating one side will impact everything else. It also has a technical dimension: layering cross-sections of light creates interesting effects, and mixing different colors will result in other hues. This is also why I start with a black background. In the darkness, the forms float when suddenly they appear. It's possible to imagine that there are others around them. Starting with a dark background allows me to increase the light instantly, whereas on a white background, it wouldn't have the same impact.
The work with color echoes this light.
There will be interactions between shapes, but also between colors, creating surprising associations, illustrated abstractions. This blend of forms and light isn't often seen, even if the influence of science fiction is evident. Living or mineral forms will create a universe in which to lose oneself. Today, we're talking about space exploration again: perhaps I'm dreaming of planets we'll discover one day. I appreciate this mystical dimension: it could be nice if there were a little life wandering around us. This brings us back to yōkai and ghosts, strange and uncontrollable entities that can be frightening but also allow us to shatter many prejudices. I always feel the urge to tell these stories.
THE FLOATING WORLDS
Japanese prints are referred to by the term ukyo-e, «images of the floating world.» Their impermanence also refers to this idea of a suspended moment. In your work, we find these weightless forms, rising towards the sky.
I discovered the painter Yves Tanguy by chance when a friend mentioned him, unaware of my current work. His landscapes evoke those of Salvador Dalí, composed of horizons and rocks. One of his images depicts floating worlds. Sometimes we need to categorize people, and while my biggest influences come from the science fiction universes of the 60s and 70s and their lunar landscapes, perhaps my work unknowingly contains a nod to Surrealism or Asian culture. These floating forms are drawn upwards. I once painted a tree that seemed to flow towards the ceiling. Its branches appeared to be sucked upwards: this floating effect created a powerful visual impact.
This work can be discovered in different ways.
It's an invitation to wander. I invite people to lose themselves in this little world, to stroll around and discover something beyond their own reality. I like the idea that they can react and get closer. Some works can be viewed from afar, but upon closer inspection, you notice the details, the slightly hidden areas, the way I've placed my dots and colors. There are two possible interpretations: either you're drawn to the light from a distance, or you discover a world that unfolds up close. Developing this outdoors takes a lot of time: I'd love to do it, but I wouldn't be able to complete it without permission. However, I always try to imagine what my work might look like transposed to the street, hidden in a corner, building a bridge with my studio paintings.
We are almost approaching a feeling of contemplation.
This feeling of tranquility can arise from a strange dimension, without us feeling threatened. This multi-tentacled figure with several pairs of eyes doesn't seem aggressive. Even though it's a slightly older work, it still lingers in my mind. Looking at it, one can question things. But meditation also involves a dreamlike quality and evokes things we may have felt, imagined, or dreamt.
ON URBAN ART
In what way is the street a unique space for creation?
The street is about sharing above all else. I try to surprise passersby: the idea isn't just to show we're there, but to intrigue people, who will then pay attention. I've sometimes stood to the side to observe their reactions, especially those of children, who are the most receptive. The ghost figure is easy to recognize, and they point at it. It's not a way to showcase my work, and that's why I kept my studio work separate from my street art for a long time. It allows me to let go, there's also an adrenaline rush that's almost mechanical, especially when I glue my character on. You enter a kind of trance, a brief confrontation with the street, the people, and everything that happens there. Most of the time, by the time people realize what I'm doing, I've already left.
What is your relationship to time when creating in the street?
Once a piece is up, I know it has a limited lifespan. There are small rewards when some last a month or two, sometimes several years. I sometimes forget what I've painted, especially graffiti, and surprise myself by rediscovering them. Occasionally they've continued to exist, sometimes they've disappeared. Collage works a little differently, and I had a bad experience with someone who was taking them. I put them up for the pleasure of the eye; someone who comes and scratches them off to collect them distorts that idea. Opening up a spot, that is, pasting in certain places before others, sometimes more famous ones, take over, gives an ego boost on the street. I pasted some up on Rue du Renard next to the Pompidou Center: there was only one painting of Nemo, and I placed my character emerging from a gutter. The perspective was excellent, with the town hall and Notre-Dame in the background. Some time later, an Invader was added above my collage. But a month later, my piece disappeared, torn down by this collector! I was able to meet him, and he was proud to show me, spread out on the ground, the collages he had recovered. This unfortunate craze reveals a different mindset, a desire for appropriation. Yet, when you give something to the street, it alone decides what will become of the piece.
Is photography a component of your work or merely a secondary aspect?
For a long time I didn't care, but then I was told to document my work. A friend was the first to photograph it: I'd tell her where I was and she'd send me her pictures. When I'm pasting up my work during the day, I leave quickly so I don't stay too long. I come back a few days later to take a photo. But that's more of a souvenir: it doesn't matter if it doesn't actually exist. A huge archive is being created thanks to people like Vitostreet who document what's happening in the street. I met him one day when he recognized the character I'd just drawn in the snow.
Do you consider urban art to be an artistic movement?
There have always been things happening in the street, but I think the enthusiasm has grown stronger in recent years. I imagine many use it as a form of flyposting, a way to get noticed so they can exhibit. But not everything I do aims to get into a gallery; it's about staying in the street. It's instinctive: I paint like I breathe, because I need to. Perhaps little by little, things will fall into place through chance encounters and life's twists and turns, but my persona isn't meant to be confined to a room. It's a spirit, created to be outside, wandering. The very idea that gave birth to it is that of... ghost In graffiti, that is, seeing the underlying paint reappear through the transparent layer after it has been repainted. When this ghost is peeled away, a shape remains, around which I then redraw, as if it were passing through the walls.
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