eL Seed: "I Want The Public To Feel Part Of My Calligraphy"

by Barbara Yakimchuk

eL Seed: "I Want The Public To Feel Part Of My Calligraphy"

6 Aug 2025

Nepal and Rio de Janeiro, the UAE and Tunisia, Lebanon and France — what could possibly connect such different places? Believe it or not, there is one striking thread that ties them all together: the calligraphic messages brought to life through the street art of eL Seed.

From "Perception" — the monumental mural painted across more than 50 buildings in a Cairo neighbourhood — to "Lost Walls" in post-revolution Tunisia, and powerful pieces in Lebanese refugee camps, eL Seed’s work spans continents. Counting all his murals? Nearly impossible. But wherever you are in the world, chances are you have come across at least one of them.

We spoke with eL Seed about how he first discovered calligraphy, the pivotal moments that shaped his journey, and the message he continues to carry across borders. What followed was an intimate and deep conversation. Enjoy.

— You once said both street art and calligraphy were born out of your identity crisis. What did you mean by that?

— I was born and raised in France to Tunisian parents, and from early on, I felt caught between two worlds. In France, even though I was born there, I was always seen as an outsider — someone who didn’t fully belong. But in Tunisia, I wasn’t considered fully Tunisian either. It felt like I had to pick a side, as if the two identities couldn’t exist together.

Over time, I came to realise that identity isn’t about choosing one over the other. It is made up of layers — and those layers shift depending on where you are or what point you are at in life. In the south of France, I am Parisian. In Tunis, I am from the south of Tunisia. Each place reflects a different version of me — and they are all real.

So I started to embrace that complexity. I stopped letting other people define who I was. I am fully French and fully Tunisian — not half of each, but whole in both. Even if that doesn’t fit neatly into people’s expectations or makes them uncomfortable, it is a truth I stand by. That internal struggle — and the eventual acceptance of it — became the heart of my work.

— I know that because of this identity crisis, you actually started learning Arabic. How confident are you with the language today?

— I am fully fluent these days — I speak it without any trouble, and it has become a natural part of who I am. That said, my handwriting still looks like a child’s — probably like a six-year-old’s on a good day.

But calligraphy is a different story altogether. It is not just about writing letters correctly — it is visual, expressive, and full of life. I feel like I have taken it to another level. It has become a language in its own right — a way to express identity, culture, and emotion. Calligraphy gave me a connection to Arabic that felt personal and real. It is no longer just about words — it is about rhythm, energy, and spirit.

— So your journey began with street art and graffiti — and then calligraphy followed?

— Yes, exactly. Street art and graffiti came first. That was my original creative outlet.

— Do you remember the very first graffiti piece you ever did — before calligraphy?

— It was in 1998, in Paris. A guy from my neighbourhood got me into it. We had this little football pitch just down from our building, and for me, it was never about vandalism — it was about making the space feel more alive. There was a wall nearby, so I painted it. That is how it all began.

Then, around 20 years later, I was back in that same neighbourhood with my kids, and I noticed a woman watching me working. I went up to her and said, “I don’t know if you remember me — I am the son of Madam Khalifi, from building 64.”

I told her I always talk about her when people ask about my first piece, even though I was never quite sure of her name. She was so happy — we even took a photo together. It was such a sweet and funny moment.

— Was there a specific moment when you decided, "Right, now my street art will be all about calligraphy"? Or did it just happen naturally over time?

— It happened quite naturally, but there was a key moment that marked the shift. I met a graffiti writer from Paris while I was in Canada. He used to write his name in a style that mimicked Arabic — he would add two dots to the letter “T” to give it that Arabic flow, even though it wasn’t actually Arabic. I was fascinated by it.

One day, he said, “Let’s paint a wall this weekend.” And I told him, “Look, I don’t really want to go back to the kind of graffiti I used to do — I am into calligraphy now.” That was the first time I properly felt the change.

What really surprised me was how natural it felt. As soon as I started doing Arabic calligraphy in a free-flowing style, it just clicked. It was as if it had always been there, waiting. You know how Spider-Man gets bitten and wakes up with powers? That is exactly what it felt like for me.

— I know you write real phrases in Arabic. How do you decide what to write, and how long does that usually take?

— It is always about the research — that is what takes the longest. The phrase has to carry a universal meaning, something that anyone, anywhere in the world, can relate to. Sometimes it takes five or six months just to find the right words.

For example, when I did my project in Egypt, I wanted to explore the idea of perception — how society often misjudges people they don’t really know. I chose to work in Cairo’s garbage collectors’ neighbourhood because it is a place that is frequently misunderstood.

I knew I couldn’t just use a quote from a French or Brazilian writer — it had to come from Egypt. And not just that — the area is a Coptic Christian neighbourhood, so it felt important to find a quote from someone who shared that background. That way, I could build trust with the community. Eventually, I found a quote by Saint Athanasius of Alexandria, a Coptic bishop from the 4th century. It says: “Anyone who wants to see the sunlight clearly needs to wipe his eyes first.”

Once I had the phrase, I went back to the neighbourhood and met the priest again — it was the second time I had seen him. I shared the quote, and he said, “You are free. Welcome to the neighbourhood. You can do what you want.”

— The Egypt project seems like one of your biggest — especially in terms of how much time and energy you dedicated to it. Was it your longest project?

— Yes, it was definitely the longest to prepare. There are other projects I have been working on for years that still haven’t come to life, but none have been as intense as this one.

— Were there any challenges during the project? I know the area where you were working was quite specific.

— The biggest challenge was the area itself — it was incredibly complex to work in. There was rubbish everywhere, traffic nonstop, and you couldn’t simply bring in a lift. We had to build one on each and every building. Sometimes we even used sandbags just to keep the setup steady.

In the end, I painted 52 façades. But what made it one of the most special projects I have ever done wasn’t the scale — it was the experience. The people I met, the bonds I formed with the community — that is what truly gave it meaning.

— How do you choose the projects you work on? Do you intentionally focus on underrepresented or unstable places in the Middle East?

— Even though I use Arabic calligraphy, most of my projects aren’t necessarily rooted in Arab contexts. That is actually a common misconception. A lot of my work is shown in institutions and museums outside the Arab world — and honestly, many of the people who connect with it are not Arabs.

Take the Cairo project, for example. I chose it because the biggest recycling community in the world happens to be there. If that community had been in Peru, Japan, or Russia, I would have gone there instead.

It had nothing to do with them being Arab or Coptic. It was simply about the fact that these people had built an incredibly efficient recycling system — and yet, they were marginalised because their work is associated with garbage. That is what drew me in.

— It feels like your work connects strongly to global social issues. Would you say that is true?

— I see what you mean, but honestly, I don’t have any specific agenda. I am not political. I just deeply believe in our shared humanity — that is really at the heart of my work.

What I try to show through my art is that people around the world have more in common than we realise. We often focus on what separates us — skin colour, language, religion — but if you take someone from Marseille in the south of France, for example, they might be culturally and socially closer to an Arab guy from Tunis than to someone from Poland or Chicago. That is the kind of connection I am interested in exploring and highlighting.

— I understand that your writing is often connected to social themes or the community around the piece. But has it ever been more personal — something not aimed at a place, but at someone close to you?

— Yes, absolutely. I created a series called "50 Ways of Seeing Love". Each piece featured the word “love” expressed in a different way. I would choose one of those expressions and paint it somewhere around the world — in Nepal, Pakistan, the US, France, Italy. These works weren’t tied to a particular place or community — they were more like universal declarations of love.

I also created a piece for my mother years ago — it read “Love you, Mum”, shaped like a heart in Arabic calligraphy. I have done works for my children too: one for my daughter, and another for my son when he was born — and again for his sixth and eighth birthdays.

I have now got twins who are two years old — I haven’t made anything for them just yet, but I am planning to. I think I will create something that brings together all four of their names in one piece.

— When you are starting a new piece or project, how do you prepare? Do you search online or try to connect with people from the place?

— When I begin a project, I usually go on a kind of scouting trip — a preliminary visit. I look for what I call “the key” — someone in the neighbourhood who can open the door to the place, who understands what I do and can help to build that first connection.

Every place has someone like that. And that is something I really love about this work — you arrive in a place where you know no one, and years later, you have friends there. I have made friends in South Korea, in the favelas of Brazil, in small villages in Nepal — all through art. That is the beauty of it. Art creates bridges between people.

Once I have found the right location, I try to connect with someone who understands the purpose behind what I do and sees how their community might benefit from it. That person becomes my negotiator, my translator, and the one who helps me get accepted by the people there. That is how it always begins.

— Can you share an example?

— Sure! In Nepal, I met this “key” person completely by chance. I had been invited to a group called YGL (Young Global Leaders), and they were introducing the class of 2021. This was just after COVID, and one of the attendees happened to be from Nepal.

I told him, “I am actually going to Nepal next week,” and he said, “No way — I will book your flight. When you land, I will meet you.” As it turned out, he was the only billionaire in Nepal. After the 2015 earthquake, he personally funded the rebuilding of 10,000 houses.

So there was one village in particular that had been rebuilt entirely by women who trained themselves in construction after the disaster — and he had funded the whole thing. When I arrived and he showed me the village, I said, “This is exactly what I have been looking for.” That is how that project began.

Or take Egypt — I met this man named Mario, from Poland. He had moved to Egypt 25 years ago to learn Arabic, fell in love with an Egyptian woman, married her, and stayed. He became the right-hand man of the priest in Garbage City.

Mario was the one who connected me with the priest and helped convince him to let me do the project. I know his wife, I know his daughters — they even invited me to one of their weddings. I couldn’t go at the time, as my twins had just been born, but I would have loved to be there.

— Was there ever a moment when your work wasn’t approved or welcomed — but the perception changed afterwards?

— Yes, there was a moment like that in Tunisia, in a place called Sarhada. I was painting a wall there — I had got permission from a girl, but it turned out she wasn’t actually the owner of the house.

While I was working, the real owner turned up and was clearly upset. I explained that I had been told it was fine, but he firmly insisted I remove everything and repaint the wall. In the end, we came to an agreement: I could finish the piece, take a few photos, and then paint over it straight after.

But later on, one of his cousins approached me and said, “Please don’t erase it — my uncle actually likes it now. He said you are welcome to do another one if you like.”

It was such an interesting turnaround. It just shows how someone’s perception of art can change once they see it in front of them. The issue, I think, is that we are not really taught how to appreciate art — and that is a real shame. Sometimes people just don’t understand its purpose, or the power it can have.

That, for me, is part of our responsibility as artists — to offer another way of seeing, another way of thinking. Even if we don’t share the same culture, politics, or religion, we can still find common ground. That is exactly what I try to do through my work.

— Has getting permission for your work been especially difficult in more conservative regions — like parts of the Middle East?

— It can be tricky at times. But to be honest, the negotiation is one of the most fascinating parts of the process for me. Convincing people who, at first, have no interest or simply don’t understand what you are doing — that is often where the real connection starts.

In fact, I have even walked away from projects when things felt too easy. I once went on a scouting trip to Bangladesh, where one of my collectors introduced me to the Ministry of Energy. Within two days, I had all the permissions I needed — even authorisation to shut down part of a highway for the piece.

It was shocked how quickly it all came together. And because it felt so effortless, I ended up cancelling the project. It just didn’t feel right — I hadn’t built any real trust or taken time to engage with the community. That process of negotiating meaning was missing. So, I chose not to go ahead.

— Since I am based in Dubai, I have to ask — could you tell me more about your 3D piece near Burj Khalifa?

— The project was called Declaration — it was, quite simply, a declaration of love for calligraphy. I first created it as a temporary installation back in 2014.

That original piece was dismantled after the exhibition, so the metallic version near the Burj was made as a kind of lasting tribute — a way to give it permanence.

It was also designed to be interactive — people could stand on it, walk around it, engage with it. That aspect was really important to me: I wanted the public to feel involved.

— Is there a place where you dream of creating a piece but haven’t had the chance yet?

— Honestly, what I am living now already feels like a dream. Being able to do what I love, to travel, and to be welcomed simply because I paint on walls — that is incredible.

And having people like you reach out to speak with me about my work — that is a real blessing.

by Barbara Yakimchuk