Born in Colombia and based in Paris, Alberto Vejarano, better known as Chanoir, is a street artist recognised for his playful, instantly identifiable cat characters. A graduate of the Beaux-Arts de Paris, he has spent more than two decades moving between the street and the studio, developing a practice that blends graffiti, pop culture and contemporary painting. In recent years, he has returned to painting in public spaces while expanding his work through exhibitions and collaborations with international brands.
So you spent about ten years painting in the studio as Chanoir?
More like five or six years.
Was that period in the studio more introspective? Did it change the way you approach Chanoir?
Every little thing I do as Chanoir is a discovery. People don’t always realise it, but every day there are new graphic, aesthetic, and technical discoveries. Creating is about deciding which of those discoveries to pursue.
In the studio, you have time to think about everything—line, contrast, balance, gradation. You can rethink a decision fifteen times before you’re satisfied. Graffiti is completely different. It’s instinctive. You paint it, and it’s either right or it isn’t. You can’t keep going back and correcting it.
You can make discoveries both in the studio and on the street. Every time you create, every time you try to move your work forward, you’re influenced by what’s happening around you. Painting and graffiti both respond to trends.
Take gradation, for example. Suddenly it’s everywhere, and it’ll probably stay that way for a few years because everyone’s using it. I’ll use it too because people respond to it. A year ago it wasn’t fashionable, and now you even see it on the cover of the latest U2 album. That’s a trend—but it isn’t really creativity.
I recently visited a Keith Haring exhibition. He’s probably had the biggest influence on my work. As soon as I saw it, I started drawing lines again. That’s always been one of my strongest visual languages. You don’t discover things like that simply by staying in the studio. Sometimes you need to see someone else’s work to rediscover your own.
You’re known for painting on the street, but also for selling your work through galleries and other channels. How do those two worlds overlap?
For me, there have always been two distinct phases of creating. The first was in the studio. After studying at the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris, I worked there for about five years. I wasn’t painting graffiti; I was making Pop art. It was about painting and thinking in an enclosed space, sometimes spending days on a single small canvas. I worked that way for almost ten years.
The other way of working is on the street, where you’re creating from nothing. It’s completely different from working indoors, and I think it’s a bit absurd to try to recreate street art in a studio. A lot of artists do it because they have the time, but that’s not how I see it.
I started on the street. My father is an artist, so I grew up surrounded by art, but in 1996, when I was twenty, I picked up a spray can and painted my first cat. I already knew how to draw, how to critique my own work, and understood art history, but the beauty of painting on the street is that anyone can do it. You don’t need formal training. You create through instinct—through the way you handle the spray can and respond to the street and the people around you.
For a long time, I lived two parallel lives: art student and graffiti artist. In fact, I wouldn’t even call myself a graffiti artist then. I was drawing animals. I never used a signature because I didn’t want to be identified, and I didn’t want trouble with the police. Every cat was slightly different, so there was never any proof it was mine. I liked that. From the beginning, I was learning in two places: by teaching myself on the street with a spray can, and by listening to other artists and fellow students. It was always a shared process.
Painting on the street is collaborative too. You watch what other people are doing and naturally you absorb ideas. I’ve always said graffiti is like climbing a staircase. It’s easier to enter than fine art because nobody cares whether you’ve been doing it for two years or twenty. That’s the law of the street. Nobody worries too much about originality because everyone accepts that ideas will be reinterpreted. Creation is open to everyone.
That said, I know very well that street art and studio practice are two different things. I spent too long locked away in the studio because people wanted to buy paintings. After years of painting Chanoir on canvas, I understood exactly what separated those two worlds.
I returned to the street two years ago simply because I missed it. In the studio, you don’t meet anyone. Nothing happens. It’s pure introspection. On the street, there’s a kind of magic. It’s as if something greater than yourself is constantly feeding you ideas and putting things in your path. Graffiti makes you feel completely present.
I even had moments that felt like revelations. One day I was painting in Saint-Germain-des-Prés and everything seemed to slow down. I was enjoying every second. Two years later another artist, Scam, told me he’d been there watching me. That’s when I finally understood what Twist meant when he said graffiti is two per cent painting and ninety-eight per cent people talking about it. Years later, I’m still telling that story. That never happens in the studio.
On the street, you connect with people and with everything around you, both good and bad. Your work creates encounters that go far beyond yourself. You never know who will see it or how long it will remain. That’s the magic of it. Once it’s out there, it has a life of its own.
An exhibition is different. You invite forty or eighty people into a gallery. I spent eighteen months preparing my first major exhibition in Colombia. Lots of people came, but many spent more time drinking cocktails and chatting than looking at the paintings. Gallery owners aren’t always interested in why you make the work either—they’re interested in selling it. On the street, the feedback feels much more genuine.
Being in touch with others’ work is really an inspiration?
In your studio, your technical abilities grow, but the real discoveries are made in the street, at an exhibition, or by watching TV, cartoons, or a TV advert. Cartoons have a big influence on my work, especially The Amazing World of Gumball. It is super strong. It’s about cats playing basketball, and they are so expressive! And Adventure Time—they were the first to replace eyes with two white circles, which is very interesting. This is what I use in my work. This is inspiration. With those two white circles, they can convey anything.
I think that 90%, even 99% of characters don’t have a soul. They are empty. But the creators of Adventure Time will never create a character without a soul; they know how to do it. It is minimalist, simple, and basic, yet they can show a lot of emotion. This is what I am trying to do. Mine might be grumpy or depressed. I worked on this feeling for a long time, and I liked it. It speaks to people. And now, I am trying to expand those emotions.
Would you say that making people feel something is important to you?
It is cool to express what you want. This is why I change all the time. When my characters are grumpy, I am usually unwell. When they are happy, all is good. But this is a bit simplistic—happy or unhappy. I want to find a broader palette of expressions. That’s what I want to do. I want to be in people’s minds. This is maybe an ego problem, or a societal problem. Most graffiti artists are unhappy with this world. I don’t know.
It is true that it is very uncommon to find a graffiti artist or street artist saying, “I love the world.” Usually, they are criticising it. I don’t know if this is about ego. Maybe it’s just a way to say, “I exist.”
This is about unity, when you find your own world. For me, that is Chanoir. You have your own identity, and it belongs only to you. This is beautiful. When you see a Keith Haring, you say, “This is the hand of Keith Haring.” And maybe the guy was a jerk, but still, his work is beautiful. This is more than ego. People want to claim who they are.
I read an article recently in which you said that your art is apolitical. But you get inspiration from politically and socially engaged artists such as Keith Haring. You said that you’re apolitical, but is it not political to go and put graffiti in a public space?
When I say apolitical, it means that, in general, I am not associated with a political party, unlike other street artists. I don’t make any claims, and I don’t want to change society. This is what I mean; I don’t have any answers. When Keith Haring speaks out against AIDS or drugs, that is awareness. I don’t know, maybe he was asked what he wanted to stand against. Maybe if I had things to defend, I would do the same. But I don’t, actually. I painted a little black cat with wheels for a friend of mine who started an association for disabled people—that was for free. I am willing to do political work when it is interesting. I say I’m apolitical because, for me, when you risk your life to put graffiti somewhere, that is political. I don’t do that. For me, this is for fun.
Is there a link with your background? Many of the artists you’ve mentioned seem to be driven by conflict.
Not really. I can’t say I have that kind of conflict. I’m not a billionaire, but I can support my family through my work, and I’m happy with that. I don’t feel I have a reason to fight. My father was an artist for forty years. He doesn’t have a pension and he’s certainly not a billionaire. He lives in Colombia now.
I decided not to join La Maison des Artistes, and I didn’t want to apply for social housing from the City of Paris. I want to be responsible for my own life and pay my own way. Maybe that makes me a capitalist, or an American-style self-made man. I don’t want people saying I’ve lived off public money or become dependent on the city. Every euro matters. You build things little by little. I want my freedom, even if it costs me. At least I can do what I want. That’s how I see it. And I hope that one day, if I become really successful, I won’t have to pay ninety per cent in taxes.
Politically, though, I had a socialist upbringing. I come from a middle-class family that chose to live very modestly. My grandfather ran a clinic, and my father is a hippie.
How do you find your place between those different worlds?
Not very well.
My cute little cat isn’t what most people are looking for. They want realistic art. Many people think realism equals quality because they couldn’t draw it themselves. The work that tends to succeed is highly realistic, with a political message or some kind of social commentary. That’s what many people think art should be. Artists like me, or Pez, who create simple characters, often aren’t taken seriously.
Many of the street artists I admired have moved towards more conventional work—people like Buff Monster or JR. Their work is accessible, and they become famous very quickly. For me it’s much harder to be recognised unless I produce something like a bestselling comic book. That’s my challenge: reaching people. There’s still a long way to go, but I believe they’ll eventually understand what I’m trying to do.
How do you feel about your work being described as naïve or instinctive?
Look at traditional Australian Aboriginal art or African art. The figures are often very simple, but they’re incredibly powerful. I’ve always admired Keith Haring and so-called primitive art. It’s minimal, but it’s beautiful.
I don’t want to be known simply for technical ability. There are already artists who do that brilliantly, like Speedy Graphito. I’ll actually be working with him next week. He’s an excellent artist with an enormous cultural vocabulary, and he’s always trying to communicate something. That’s Pop art.
Personally, I’ve grown tired of that. Andy Warhol no longer speaks to me. It feels like beauty for its own sake.
How do you feel about your work being described as naïve or instinctive?
Look at traditional Australian Aboriginal art or African art. The figures are often very simple, but they’re incredibly powerful. I’ve always admired Keith Haring and so-called primitive art. It’s minimal, but it’s beautiful.
I don’t want to be known simply for technical ability. There are already artists who do that brilliantly, like Speedy Graphito. I’ll actually be working with him next week. He’s an excellent artist with an enormous cultural vocabulary, and he’s always trying to communicate something. That’s Pop art.
Personally, I’ve grown tired of that. Andy Warhol no longer speaks to me. It feels like beauty for its own sake.
To be honest, I have more respect for the artist who created The Amazing World of Gumball than for many contemporary art exhibitions. But I’m also deeply moved by painting. The last time I was truly overwhelmed was at an exhibition of German Romantic painting. There was a small canvas—about sixty by eighty centimetres—showing a medieval castle at night. It captured all the mystery of the Middle Ages. That single image conveyed more atmosphere than Coppola’s entire Dracula. That’s genius. That’s what an artist can do.
The painter made little more than Gothic churches and medieval castles, yet they were filled with fear and wonder. It was sublime. You don’t have to tell a story. That’s the real strength of art. A single image can say more than three hundred pages of text. That’s pure emotion.
I read that your work is about de-intellectualising art.
No, I try to be like a blank page. I work with my instincts. Speedy Graphito is very intellectualised, like MC Solaar. Sometimes, all you want is to be simple and idiotic. I really like intellectual discoveries, but sometimes they are not brilliant. When you have something truly brilliant, like that German artist, it is a breakthrough.
There is an easy theory to evaluate if you are creating art and how to qualify it: 10 points for the technique/plasticity, and 10 points for the story and message. Most of the time, I get 0 points for the story. I don’t know what to say to people.
And you can feel what the artist’s intentions are. The better the artist is at conveying that, the more you like it. There is an American artist who does portraits, like The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. His style is so ugly, yet so personal; at first, you think it’s not good, but after seeing it three times, you are impressed. The best artists are often disliked at the beginning and worshipped at the end.
Some street artists will use middle-class codes, like Swoon—she lives between two trains, but her work is very meticulous. Sometimes, I have trouble understanding artists and their work. I don’t know if it is only graphic trends that make graffiti art.
So there is no need to have a message behind a work of graffiti or street art?
When you offer a message and people don’t get it, or get it wrong, it is painful. I prefer people who don’t have a message.
Sometimes, it is better to be idiotic, dirty, and bad without a message, as long as you are authentic. I like authenticity. Even if it is ugly, at least it is truly you.
You have made money doing brand work, including for Samsung, Cacharel, and the Streets Hôtel. Is this still what you would consider authentic?
This is different. A graffiti artist wants to become famous. He wants to be seen. The day Samsung asked me to paint phone cases, I said yes because a phone is a street object—you walk around with it, and people see it. I do the same thing I do in the street, except that people can keep it. The ideal scenario is to have accessible products with your personal touch on them.
Is the primary goal to make money or to get noticed?
What I was most excited about was being exhibited at La Conciergerie. That was the first time I felt recognised in France. This is why people work with brands like Monoprix. It is good when people like you and want to collaborate with you. This is what every graffiti artist wants.
But there are some graffiti artists, generally involved in politics, who don’t want to be approached by big companies and feel like they would be prostituting themselves.
Yes, you always feel like that. You have to sell your work, and it feels like prostitution. Whether it’s with a gallery, your friends, the studio, or a museum, you sell yourself. You have to accept it, even if it feels ugly. You can lose your self-esteem; you feel like a whore. Because sometimes, with a single sale, you can live for months. We are all whores.
What about Nasty, who did several jobs for Monoprix?
Nasty was different, even when he was younger; he works half the year at an advertising company. If he doesn’t do it, who will? He has always played with the commercial, Pop art side of graffiti. I am very happy for him. People are snobs. If you like Nasty’s work, you will like it whether it’s on Monoprix or on Gucci. I would love to work with Monoprix; I would reach a lot of people. It is a good way to know if people like what you do.
Art today is interdisciplinary. Today, art is for everybody—even for the one who does it, even if it is a copy of another artist.
The gallery owners and the producers are becoming the artists because they have the money and the ideas. They are the ones in charge.
First publication date: 1 December, 2014
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