I 2012 da jeg malede minareten af Jara Moskéen i min hjemby Gabés, i det sydlige Tunesien, havde jeg aldrig troet, at grafitti ville bringe så meget opmærksomhed til en by.
In 2012, when I painted the minaret of Jara Mosque in my hometown of Gabés, in the south of Tunisia, I never thought that graffiti would bring so much attention to a city.
I begyndelsen var jeg kun på udkig efter en mur i min hjemby og det viste sig, at minareten var bygget i 1994. Og i de 18 år, forblev de 57 meter af beton gråt. Da jeg mødte imamen for første gang og jeg fortalte ham hvad jeg ville gøre, var han ligesom, "Gudskelov, du er endelig kommet," og han fortalte mig at i årevis havde han ventet for nogen til at gøre noget ved det. Det mest fantastiske ved den her imam er, at han ikke spurgte mig omkring noget -- hverken en skitse, eller hvad jeg havde tænkt mig at skrive.
At the beginning, I was just looking for a wall in my hometown, and it happened that the minaret was built in '94. And for 18 years, those 57 meters of concrete stayed grey. When I met the imam for the first time, and I told him what I wanted to do, he was like, "Thank God you finally came," and he told me that for years he was waiting for somebody to do something on it. The most amazing thing about this imam is that he didn't ask me anything -- neither a sketch, or what I was going to write.
I hvert kunstværk som jeg skaber, skriver jeg budskaber med min kalligraffiti stil -- en blanding af kalligrafi og graffiti. Jeg bruger citater eller poesi. For minareten mente jeg, at det mest relevante budskab til at putte på en moské burde komme fra Koranen, så jeg valgte et vers: "Åh menneskehed, vi har skabt dig fra en mand og en kvinde," og givet jer mennesker og stammer, så I kan kende hinanden." Det var et universelt råb for fred, tolerance og accept, der kommer fra den side vi normalt ikke fremstiller på en god måde i medierne.
In every work that I create, I write messages with my style of calligraffiti -- a mix of calligraphy and graffiti. I use quotes or poetry. For the minaret, I thought that the most relevant message to be put on a mosque should come from the Quran, so I picked this verse: "Oh humankind, we have created you from a male and a female, and made you people and tribe, so you may know each other." It was a universal call for peace, tolerance, and acceptance coming from the side that we don't usually portray in a good way in the media.
Jeg var forbløffet over, hvordan det lokale samfund tog imod maleriet og hvordan det gjorde dem stolt at se minareten få så meget opmærksomhed af international presse fra hele verden. For imamen var det ikke kun maleriet; det var meget dybere end det. Han håbede, at minareten kunne blive et monument for byen og tiltrække folk til dette glemte sted i Tunesien. Det universelle af budskabet, det politiske indhold af Tunesien på tidspunktet og kendsgerningen at jeg skrev Koranen på en graffiti måde var ikke uden betydning. Det forenede fællesskabet.
I was amazed to see how the local community reacted to the painting, and how it made them proud to see the minaret getting so much attention from international press all around the world. For the imam, it was not just the painting; it was really deeper than that. He hoped that this minaret would become a monument for the city, and attract people to this forgotten place of Tunisia. The universality of the message, the political context of Tunisia at this time, and the fact that I was writing Quran in a graffiti way were not insignificant. It reunited the community.
At bringe folk, fremtidige generationer, sammen igennem arabisk kalligrafi er hvad jeg gør. At skrive budskaber er essensen af mit kunsthåndværk. Hvad der faktisk er sjovt er, at selv arabisktalende personer har virkelig brug for at fokusere for, at kunne afkode hvad jeg skriver. Man behøver ikke at kende meningen for at føle værket. Jeg tror, at arabiske skrifttegn rører din sjæl før det når dine øjne. Der er en skønhed i det, som man ikke behøver at oversætte. Arabiske skrifttegn taler til alle, mener jeg; til dig, til dig, til dig, til alle. og når man så forstår meningen, føler man sig forbundet til det. Jeg gør mig altid umage med, at skrive budskaber, som er relevante til det sted, hvor jeg maler, men budskaber der har en universel dimension, så enhver over hele verden kan forbinde sig til det.
Bringing people, future generations, together through Arabic calligraphy is what I do. Writing messages is the essence of my artwork. What is funny, actually, is that even Arabic-speaking people really need to focus a lot to decipher what I'm writing. You don't need to know the meaning to feel the piece. I think that Arabic script touches your soul before it reaches your eyes. There is a beauty in it that you don't need to translate. Arabic script speaks to anyone, I believe; to you, to you, to you, to anybody, and then when you get the meaning, you feel connected to it. I always make sure to write messages that are relevant to the place where I'm painting, but messages that have a universal dimension, so anybody around the world can connect to it.
Jeg var født og opvokset i Frankrig, i Paris, og jeg startede med at lære, at skrive og læse arabisk da jeg var 18. I dag skriver jeg kun budskaber i arabisk. Èn af grundene til, at det er vigtigt for mig, er på grund af alle reaktionerne, som jeg har oplevet over hele verden.
I was born and raised in France, in Paris, and I started learning how to write and read Arabic when I was 18. Today I only write messages in Arabic. One of the reasons this is so important to me, is because of all the reaction that I've experienced all around the world.
I Rio de Janeiro oversatte jeg et portugisisk digt fra Gabriela Tôrres Barbosa, som hyldede de fattige mennesker fra slummen, og jeg malede det på taget. Det lokale samfund var nysgerrig omkring hvad jeg lavede, men så snart at jeg gav dem meningen af kalligrafien takkede de mig, da de følte sig forbundet til værket.
In Rio de Janeiro, I translated this Portuguese poem from Gabriela Tôrres Barbosa, who was giving an homage to the poor people of the favela, and then I painted it on the rooftop. The local community were really intrigued by what I was doing, but as soon as I gave them the meaning of the calligraphy, they thanked me, as they felt connected to the piece.
I Sydafrika, i Cape Town, det lokale samfund i Philippi tilbød mig den eneste betonvæg i slummen. Det var en skole og jeg skrev på den et citat fra Nelson Mandela, som sagde, "[på arabisk]," der betyder, "Det virker umuligt indtil det er gjort." En fyr kom hen til mig og sagde, "Hvorfor skriver du ikke på engelsk?" og svarede, "Jeg ville anse dit spørgsmål som gyldig, hvis du havde spurgt mig," hvorfor jeg ikke skriver i zulu."
In South Africa, in Cape Town, the local community of Philippi offered me the only concrete wall of the slum. It was a school, and I wrote on it a quote from Nelson Mandela, saying, "[in Arabic]," which means, "It seems impossible until it's done." Then this guy came to me and said, "Man, why you don't write in English?" and I replied to him, "I would consider your concern legit if you asked me why I didn't write in Zulu."
Der var engang i Paris, den her begivenhed og nogen gav mig en væg, der skulle males. Og da han så, at jeg malede på arabisk, blev han så vred -- faktisk hysterisk -- og bad om at væggen blev slettet. Jeg var vred og skuffet. Men en uge senere bad arrangøren af begivenheden mig om at komme tilbage, og han fortalte mig, at der stadig var en væg lige foran fyrens hus. Så ham fyren -- (Latter) blev tvunget til at se på det hver dag. I starten havde jeg tænkt mig at skrive, "[på arabisk]," der betyder, "I dit fjæs," men -- (Latter) Jeg valgte at være smartere og jeg skrev, "[på arabisk]," der betyder, "Åben dit hjerte."
In Paris, once, there was this event, and someone gave his wall to be painted. And when he saw I was painting in Arabic, he got so mad -- actually, hysterical -- and he asked for the wall to be erased. I was mad and disappointed. But a week later, the organizer of the event asked me to come back, and he told me that there was a wall right in front of this guy's house. So, this guy -- (Laughter) like, was forced to see it every day. At the beginning, I was going to write, "[In Arabic]," which means, "In your face," but -- (Laughter) I decided to be smarter and I wrote, "[In Arabic]," which means, "Open your heart."
Jeg er virkeligt stolt af min kultur, og jeg prøver at være en ambassadør af det gennem mit kunsthåndværk. Og jeg håber, at jeg kan bryde stereotypen som vi alle kender med skønheden af arabiske skrifttegn. I dag skriver jeg ikke oversættelsen af budskabet længere på væggen. Jeg vil ikke have, at poesien af kalligrafien skal være ødelagt da det er kunst og man kan påskønne det uden at kende meningen, ligesom man kan nyde musik fra andre lande. Nogen mennesker ser det som en afvisning eller en lukket dør, men for mig er det mere en invitation -- til mit sprog, til min kultur og til min kunst.
I'm really proud of my culture, and I'm trying to be an ambassador of it through my artwork. And I hope that I can break the stereotypes we all know, with the beauty of Arabic script. Today, I don't write the translation of the message anymore on the wall. I don't want the poetry of the calligraphy to be broken, as it's art and you can appreciate it without knowing the meaning, as you can enjoy any music from other countries. Some people see that as a rejection or a closed door, but for me, it's more an invitation -- to my language, to my culture, and to my art.
Tak.
Thank you.
(Bifald)
(Applause)