Oakoak
PLAYING WITH THE WORLD TO MAKE IT SEEABLE
COURSE
How did you become an artist?
I didn't study art, but business administration. Around the age of twenty-five, on my way to work, I felt like I was living in a Kafkaesque world, which perhaps led me to seek inspiration elsewhere. I wasn't familiar with street art and its conventions, but passing by an open fire hydrant, I thought I'd add two eyes and a mouth to make it more human and fun. I ended up doing it with double-sided tape so it would remain accessible. In fact, it all really started while I was wandering around, searching for one urban element after another, before discovering the pre-existing work of other artists. So I continued my repurposing in a DIY way, before my work gradually gained wider recognition. The beginnings of my artistic journey thus go hand in hand with my first steps in the street.
REVEAL THE WORLD
In what way is the street a special creative space for you?
I always use the term "urban intervention" to define my work. There has to be an urban element, a piece of street to work from: it's essential to my approach and my vision of street art. Faced with a large white wall, I look for a hole or some other distinctive feature to use as a starting point. From the beginning, I also wanted to create things on the ground, because few people repurpose pedestrian crossings. But while there might be some tolerance for walls, it's more difficult to attack the ground or signage.
How important is this contextual dimension in Street art?
In my opinion, context is the very essence of street art. Many people say you shouldn't go to a gallery: I don't agree, however, you can't really call these works urban art. It's art, and I don't see why a street artist couldn't create it, but street art, in my view, is something that can only be done in public spaces. My definition of urban intervention—which I consider a subcategory—is linked to the street and street furniture. To find a piece, I have to walk a lot: you can pass the same thing a hundred times before you finally have that epiphany.
So it's a job that's done almost more often with that In the street.
I have two approaches: either I find something during a walk that immediately calls for intervention, like Snoopy with the lamppost's shadow suggesting a doghouse—in which case the artwork is prepared very quickly, and all that's needed is to take measurements. Or I discover a specific location without having it immediately: I then take a photograph and keep it in albums filled with particular urban elements and their addresses. I look through them from time to time until I have a breakthrough. It's a bit like forcing yourself to look at clouds to guess their shape. Conversely, when preparing for a festival, all the research has to be done beforehand. However, it's sometimes difficult to prepare a sketch that can be adapted to several locations. So I often ask the organizers to give me the address so I can explore the place on Street View, or to send me hundreds of photographs of the few streets adjacent to the intervention site. I then spend the preceding weeks looking at these images to find inspiration. But it is also possible to consider interventions on pedestrian crossings, which are simpler to organize and more traditional in festivals.
It almost feels like you have a physical relationship with the street.
For me, the street is first and foremost about walking for an hour each day through spaces I know or don't know, watching for the appearance of new elements. It's essential for finding the idea that will then be developed in the studio. Furthermore, urban space evolves: the street at seven o'clock is not the same as the one at seven o'clock, the shadows vary. It can also be about the transformation of a tree: I'm working on a series about the seasons with Virginia creeper, always in the same spot for twelve months, but sometimes there will be fruit, other times falling leaves… The same street offers a multitude of different profiles throughout the year, providing just as many potential ideas. That's why, while walking, I force myself to look for places and moments, but not necessarily new streets. I must have walked past what would become Snoopy's doghouse for seven years before, one evening, on my way home at just the right moment, the idea appeared.
Your entire job consists of revealing, of (re)making visible.
This helps people realize that even a wall with a hole in it can be perceived differently, that not all cities are necessarily gray, that a bollard can be transformed. I sometimes run workshops in schools, and I consider it a success when parents tell me that the whole family now sees faces or smiles appearing in the street. Occasionally, some children take the plunge and pick up a piece of chalk to add a mouth or eyes themselves. That's when we realize it's a field accessible to everyone.
THE PREMINENCE OF THE IDEA
Could you elaborate on the importance of the idea in your work?
The idea is central. Passersby will react when they find the original artwork, realizing they've never seen a particular place from that perspective. Since I don't have formal art training, I have less technical mastery, but I'm always thinking about how a round, broken object can be repurposed to allow us to see the world differently. Simplicity is also paramount: if a pedestrian crossing becomes too complex, it loses its clarity. It's better if the piece can be understood at a glance. I try to ensure the original element remains more prominent than my addition so that it's easily recognizable and the transformation is evident.
Is the choice of medium and universe subject to the idea?
At first, I mainly used collage, which is a quicker technique to apply illegally and can be prepared at home. Now that it's easier to work officially, I might as well use stencils because I have more time to do them and they last longer. Permits are necessary in certain places, especially for working on pedestrian crossings, because you have to block the road. It wouldn't make sense to paste on the ground, especially since the edges or the size of a room could make it difficult to apply. So the location determines the materials used. Experience also comes into play: when I started, I would get up at two in the morning and rush, but now I realize that the best time is during the day. Dan Witz explains that all you need to do is wear a vest and place cones so people think you have permission.
How do you ensure the originality of your idea?
The field of urban intervention is quite unique, because when working on signage, it's difficult to know if someone else has already had the same idea. While some people don't question it as much, I personally try to check on Google to see if someone else has worked on the same subject before me. But the repetition of my own ideas is also criticized: when I create a series of several characters, I'm accused of having already done them. Sometimes, with urban intervention, you get the impression that you need to be in a constant state of evolution.
Do your ideas ever get out of hand?
Sometimes you might think you were the first to have an idea, but it also happens that someone else has already created the same work, which is a real ego booster. It's almost more rewarding to see a piece surpass your own: I created the stop sign with a polar bear five days before the first march for the environment. I received images from all over the world of people who had made their own versions. In a single day, it was almost no longer mine, seen so many times that it would have been difficult to say who had originally created it. This bear for the planet spread as an idea. However, since ADAGP doesn't protect them, it's sometimes difficult to intervene, especially when a company decides to use this symbol for a T-shirt. Not being able to own an idea is sometimes a limitation. On the other hand, I'm also the first to reuse existing characters or motifs, like the Simpsons or Star Wars: I consider these characters to be well-known enough that it seems obvious that I don't claim them. For the 30th anniversary of The Simpsons, I was even asked for permission to use one of my photographs. In a way, things had come full circle.
A FRAGILE AND DISCREET JOB
Forgoing immediate identification is a radical choice compared to the majority of urban artists whose visual signature is easily identifiable.
It's both a freedom and a constraint. I can truly do whatever I want: stencils, famous figures, collages… But it can sometimes be difficult not to have an immediately recognizable visual signature, which for me is the transformed element. Moreover, I very often forget to sign my work, which doesn't help at all! When I publish an image, people will recognize me through the reinterpretation, so it sometimes happens that I'm identified in works that aren't mine: I tell myself then that they've understood my approach.
Your work is intended to be, above all, fun and accessible.
This allows us to discuss the role of humor in street art, which isn't the most common approach. The moment you mention humor, you feel like you're losing credibility. Yet, being able to make people laugh and smile is essential in this field: being able to do it like Matt_tieu is rare. It's great if I can occasionally include a message about the environment, but my primary goal is really to wander around and enjoy creating. There need to be artists for everything: it's very important that some speak out, but it's also essential that others have lighter work. During lockdown, I was glad not to create a single piece related to the coronavirus, which was already constantly on everyone's mind. The pandemic also led to some easy parodies, like putting a mask on the Mona Lisa.
Are you looking to use references that appeal to our collective memory?
This isn't always the case, as I sometimes reference a specific Simpsons episode so precisely that only a few people will know what it's about. I use my own references, whether well-known or not, without considering whether a particular character will resonate with a wider audience. Indeed, that wouldn't necessarily make sense when the goal is to adapt to an urban setting. When I worked on Cacofonix, I was looking for a gagged character, and he presented himself naturally. In Nantes, there were bollards with cones shaped like bowler hats: for me, they could only lead to Charlie Chaplin's "The TV Series." Bowler hat and leather boots Or A Clockwork Orange.
URBAN INTERVENTION IN THE FACE OF MURALISM
What is your view on illegality?
I always say that the less you ask for permission, the more likely you are to get it. When you're given free rein, there are always added constraints: for every sketch you make, you're asked for another one. Illegality isn't a necessity for me, but when you're alone in the street, you draw whenever you feel like it, whereas if you need permission, it can become more complicated. I get the impression that street art now relies heavily on public commissions, on... murals. But then, who to choose and why? I've never entered a competition because I don't really like the idea of choosing a best I'm an artist. I do small things and don't need gigantic walls to express myself.
With muralism, we lose the idea of an art accessible to all.
Anyone can wake up one morning and decide to paint in the street. But it's impossible to create a huge mural without having done anything before. I like the fact that a piece is on a scale that passersby can discover for themselves. Of course, its lifespan is much shorter, and 99 percent of my work is gone, but that's street life. I'm not a fan of tagging because there's always space nearby, but I don't mind it and I've never painted over anyone myself. This ephemeral nature forces you to reinvent yourself and keep working, because to be present in the street, you have to create constantly. Finally, and to borrow a phrase from Jaune, I work on a small scale because while you can adore a cat, a kitten is much cuter.
Your work has a poetic dimension linked to its fragility.
Sometimes the very notion of temporality comes into play: depending on the location or the weather, the artwork can only be discovered at certain times. When you walk past Snoopy during the day, you only see a dog suspended in the air, and you have to wait until night to discover his kennel. I also depicted an X-Men character on the ground, with a ray of sunlight emanating from his eyes: this piece only works for one minute a day. I like this idea of having to be in the right place at the right time. Thus, almost all passersby will miss this piece: for me, it's a bit like those works in abandoned spaces, painted for a handful of people who will make the effort or are lucky enough to be there. It's a kind of Holy Grail, a tiny thing that makes us feel privileged because no one else has discovered it. This sometimes makes us even happier than if the artwork had been seen by a multitude of people. This is somewhat of a leitmotif for Invader: from an aesthetic point of view, it's simply pixels from a video game; the real challenge lies in the exploration. The true artwork is the invasion itself.
RELATIONSHIP TO THE STREET
Do you feel like you are part of an artistic movement with urban interventions?
It's an artistic movement, even if there are significant differences between my work, that of a muralist, or someone exhibiting in a gallery. If we talk about labels for Street Art, it's perhaps because people have a similar way of understanding these works, perceiving them as a whole. If they believe there's a movement to which certain artists belong, then it exists. But in my opinion, we should be talking more about Art than having arguments between Street Art and Graffiti, between the vandal pioneers and the commercialism of galleries. Veteran graffiti artists sometimes struggle with the democratization of this phenomenon and don't understand how we can do what was forbidden to them, when it's thanks to what they did that we are so free today. Those who think there's only one way to do things generally don't help Art evolve.
What is your relationship with photography? It is indeed the almost exclusive way to discover your work.
Most of the people who follow me only know me through images, without ever having seen any of my pieces in the street. The photograph, therefore, already constitutes proof, a testimony, a memory. Shared on social media, it takes on even more meaning and allows the artwork to withstand the test of time. It's finished once it's photographed, and I love the fact that it can be seen from Los Angeles to Tehran, or that I can receive an email from anywhere in the world from someone who has only seen a single photo. Social media has also allowed me to gain recognition, all while working in Saint-Étienne.
What is your perspective on being an artist today?
I often find myself checking the score of a match on my phone in galleries, which surprises people. But I'd rather spend an evening talking about football than discussing an artistic upheaval caused by a change of color. In life, as in my work, I'm someone for whom football is as important as The Simpsons, and I believe that art is the sum of all these things. Sometimes it seems like you have to have studied for years to be able to talk about it. When I started, none of my close friends knew, and that allowed me to stay true to myself. For me, the concept of enjoyment is more important than aesthetics. Since street art is a fairly recent movement, time hasn't yet been the judge: everyone can find enjoyment in it, which is the most important thing, because without that, nothing would be worthwhile. Besides, it's often difficult to justify one's behavior as an artist: what people don't understand is that sometimes you have to spend five days on your couch doing absolutely nothing. The need to take time to escape into another world and reflect is never mentioned in art. Yet, this moment is just as important as any other, and I really love this phase when nothing seems to happen. It allows you to disconnect and find inspiration.
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