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.
2012. gadā, kad apgleznoju Žaras mošejas minaretu savā dzimtajā Gabesā, uz dienvidiem no Tunisijas, nekad neiedomājos, ka grafiti pilsētai pievērsīs tik lielu uzmanību.
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.
Sākumā es savā dzimtajā pilsētā vienkārši meklēju sienu, un tā sagadījās, ka minaretu uzcēla 1994. gadā, un 18 gadus šie 57 betona metri bija un palika pelēki. Pirmo reizi satiekot imāmu un izstāstot viņam par iecerēto, viņš noteica: „Paldies Dievam, tu beidzot atnāci.” Viņš pastāstīja, ka gadiem ilgi gaidījis, ka kāds uz tās kaut ko pasāks. Apbrīnojamākais, ka šis imāms man neko nejautāja – nedz uzmetumu, nedz arī to, ko rakstīšu.
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.
Visos savos darbos es rakstu vēstis savā kaligrafiti stilā – kaligrāfijas un grafiti sajaukumā. Es izmantoju citātus vai dzeju. Runājot par minaretu, man šķita, ka mošejai vispiemērotākā būtu kāda vēsts no Korāna, tāpēc izvēlējos šo pantu: „Ak, cilvēce, esam tevi radījuši no vīrieša un sievietes un sadalījuši tevi tautās un ciltīs, lai jūs viens otru iepazītu.” Tas bija vispārējs miera, iecietības un pieņemšanas aicinājums, nākošs no puses, ko plašsaziņas līdzekļos parasti neataino labā gaismā.
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.
Biju pārsteigts, kā uz gleznojumu reaģēja vietējā kopiena un kā viņos viesa lepnumu lielā uzmanība, ko saņēma minarets no starptautiskās preses visā pasaulē. Imāmam tas nebija tikai gleznojums, bet gan kas daudz vairāk. Viņš cerēja, ka minarets kļūs par pilsētas pieminekli un piesaistīs cilvēkus šai aizmirstajai Tunisijas vietai. Vēsts vispārējums, Tunisijas tā laika politiskais konteksts un tas, ka grafiti veidā rakstīju tekstus no Korāna, nebija mazsvarīgi. Tas atkal apvienoja kopienas.
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.
Caur arābu kaligrāfiju satuvināt cilvēkus, nākotnes paaudzes – tas ir mans darbs. Manu mākslas darbu pamatā ir vēstījumu rakstīšana. Smieklīgi, ka pat arābvalodīgajiem ļoti jāpiepūlas, lai izburtotu manis rakstīto. Nav jāzina nozīme, lai izjustu mākslas darbu. Manuprāt, arābu raksts, pirms iekrīt acīs, aizķer dvēseli. Tajā ir skaistums, kas nav jāpārtulko. Uzskatu, ka arābu raksts uzrunā ikvienu: tevi, tevi, tevi, ikvienu, un tad, saprotot nozīmi, jūti ar to saikni. Es vienmēr rakstu vēstis, kas aktuālas vietai, kur tās gleznoju, taču tām ir arī vispārējāka šķautne, lai ikviens pasaulē ar tām varētu rast saikni.
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.
Es piedzimu un uzaugu Francijā, Parīzē, un 18 gadu vecumā sāku mācīties lasīt un rakstīt arābiski. Šobrīd es vēstis rakstu tikai arābiski. Viens no iemesliem, kāpēc man tas ir tik svarīgi, ir visā pasaulē piedzīvotās reakcijas dēļ.
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.
Riodežaneiro es pārtulkoju Gabriela Toresa Barbosas portugāļu dzejoli, kurā viņš apliecina cieņu favelu nabadzīgajiem, un tad uzgleznoju to uz jumta. Vietējo kopienu manis darītais ļoti ieinteresēja, taču, tiklīdz paskaidroju viņiem šīs kaligrāfijas nozīmi, viņi, sajutuši saikni ar darbu, man pateicās.
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."
Dienvidāfrikā, Keiptaunā, vietējā filipi kopiena piedāvāja man graustu rajona vienīgo betona mūri. Tā bija skola, uz kuras uzrakstīju Nelsona Mandelas citātu, kurā teikts: „[arābiski].” Tas nozīmē: „Tas šķiet neiespējami, iekams kāds to paveic.” Tad pie manis pienāca puisis un teica: „Draugs, kāpēc neraksti angliski?” Es atbildēju: „Es uzskatītu tavas bažas par pamatotām, ja tu jautātu, kādēļ nerakstīju to zulu.”
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."
Parīzē reiz bija viens pasākums, kurā kāds ļāva apkrāsot savu sienu. Pamanījis, ka rakstu arābiski, viņš ļoti sadusmojās, patiesībā krita histērijā, un pavēlēja sienu notīrīt. Es biju dusmīgs un vīlies. Taču pēc nedēļas pasākuma rīkotājs mani ielūdza atpakaļ un pateica, ka šī puiša mājas pašā priekšā ir siena. Tāpēc šis puisis... (Smiekli) ik dienu bija spiests uz to noraudzīties. Sākumā grasījos rakstīt „[arābiski]”, kas nozīmē „še tev...”, taču... (Smiekli) nolēmu būt gudrāks un uzrakstīju „[arābiski]”, kas nozīmē „atver savu sirdi”.
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.
Es ļoti lepojos ar savu kultūru, un ar saviem mākslas darbiem cenšos būt tās vēstnesis. Ceru, ka ar arābu raksta skaistumu spēšu apgāzt mums visiem zināmos stereotipus. Šobrīd es uz mūra vairs nerakstu vēsts tulkojumu. Es negribu izjaukt kaligrāfijas dzeju, jo tā ir māksla, ko var novērtēt, arī nezinot nozīmi, gluži kā var baudīt citvalstu mūziku. Daži cilvēki to uztver kā atraidījumu vai slēgtas durvis, taču man tas drīzāk ir aicinājums – manā valodā, manā kultūrā un manā mākslā.
Thank you.
Paldies.
(Applause)
(Aplausi)