KOOZFor over two decades, you’ve been using city surfaces — residential façades, street pavements, and even prison walls — as your canvas. Is architecture a passive backdrop for your drawings, or do you consider buildings and urban infrastructure as subjects or active participants  — perhaps even collaborators or adversaries — in your work?

BART LODEWIJKSMy work exists by the grace of resistance. There are no suitable places for chalk drawings. Architecture harbours life, it is inhabited, but not built to draw with chalk. Added to this, residents are not conditioned to the arrival of an artist and the weather usually does not cooperate either. It is too cold, too hot, too windy and so on. All these different resistances are parts of my work. They are building blocks for my stories.

KOOZYour chalk drawings are destined to disappear, washed away by rain or time. Do you see their ephemerality as a counterpoint to the permanence of architecture, or as a way of shifting focus toward the act of drawing itself? How do you reconcile the fleeting nature of your work with the lasting impact it leaves on those who witness it?

BLTo me, drawing is a social act. Residents give me permission to draw on their houses because the chalk washes away by rain or is removable with a brush. Temporality is a guarantee I offer them in advance.

So with chalk, I penetrate the social strata of neighbourhoods relatively easily and find out all sorts of things (including what I don't want to hear). Residents don't necessarily like my drawings, but they do like the precision. They generally appreciate the attention and concentration I put into drawing, and that I indirectly give to them. When I am working, I am left alone. I do the same with their work. It is a form of mutual respect. This is not a constant interaction.

Residents and passers-by often want to know what I am doing. I then ask if they know a place where I can continue drawing, or if I can borrow a ladder to reach a high part of a facade. Slowly, drawing becomes part of a neighbourhood, exposing stories that would have remained invisible without drawing. I write them down and publish them along with photos of the drawings in books and newspapers (published by Roma Publications since 2001). The books and newspapers are structures in which the drawing, the encounters, but also my associations come together.

KOOZYou are known for your long, precise chalk lines, often guided by a spirit level. What draws you to this extreme linearity? Do these ruled lines impose a subtle order onto the city’s chaos, or do they reveal something about the hidden geometries of urban space? How does this precision interact with the unpredictable social interactions that your work often provokes?

BLChalk lines run straight; they are the shortest connection between two points. Lines are like footsteps. On foot, you can get anywhere. I try to get everywhere by drawing. All I need is a drawing ruler, chalk and public space. The spirit level and chalk gives a structure, it makes me accurate, as if I am holding the railing of a ship at sea. It provides comfort in an unruly world.

KOOZYou’ve described your process as being made of “chalk and trust.” Building trust with local residents seems central to your work. What strategies do you use to navigate initial skepticism? Have you encountered moments where trust was withheld, and how did you respond?

BLI can draw the chalk lines with my eyes closed, but of course I keep them wide open — as wide as my ears and all the other senses that help take in an environment. The days on the street consist of short conversations, greetings, a coffee here and a coffee there... But not everything is peace and quiet. Problematic, for instance, is the chalk powder that gets scattered on the streets. Chalk particles blow in through open windows, stick under soles of shoes, descend on cars and so on. It is a persistent side effect that does not endear me to a neighbourhood.

When a neighbourhood manifests itself as an impregnable fortress, doubt strikes me. I don't know where to start then. I usually force myself and start drawing in a place that belongs to everyone and no one, for instance on a kerb or on a meadow pole. Or I look for a spot out of sight. I then address myself: ‘It doesn't really matter what you draw, as long as you draw.’ Thinking that way is liberating.

I enjoy drawing and people see that. But on the street, so many forces and dynamics are working together that it is impossible to remain unaffected. In the Brussels prison, I soon became intertwined with different interests. When my notebook was stolen, I kept it quiet. I didn't want to discredit the inmates… And I knew that if they were searched at my bidding, my carefully-constructed position would be shattered. At the same time, I had to be loyal to the directors — those who made the assignment possible.

KOOZIn New Neighbours, you described your urge to draw on “the most feared wall of them all, the wall of walls”, hoping “to breach the line separating good from evil.” What was at stake for you in marking this boundary? Did the act of drawing on the prison wall change its meaning — for you, for the inmates, or for the surrounding community?

BLThe most populous indoor space I have ever drawn in is in a prison. A labyrinth of bars, concrete and heavy doors. There is a coming and going of suspects and convicts. Nobody wants to be stuck, but the cells are overcrowded. Nowhere do more resistances and contradictions intertwine than there. I almost got caught up in the stories and their double meanings. It is chaotic and orderly at the same time. A mini society behind a thick wall. I call this wall ‘the wall of walls’ because the cell doors resemble spines of books awaiting writing. On the other side of the wall, out of sight of society, it is bursting with life.

Chalking seems reserved for innocent children, but for an adult, it is not an innocent activity. In a nutshell, I am an uninvited guest invading communities. There is nothing sympathetic or innocent about that. Wanting to be part of a prison community is high stakes. If I really wanted to achieve something there, I had to gain prestige among inmates, work my way up their pecking order. That was only possible out of sight of the guards. During my stay I became more and more skillful at it. One day, I was exposed and the management put me on staff outside the prison. I made every effort to return.

On the first day in prison, I deliberately chose to work with a purple crayon, a colour I don't like. Putting up a hurdle for myself is a trick to force choices, to take control of the work and put it in tension. To regain my freedom within the prison's restrictive environment, I voluntarily imposed an extra restriction on myself.

In my texts, inmates often do the talking, but I don't know if the stories I wrote down will ever reach them. I went back to the prison several more times voluntarily, but the inmates I knew had been released or transferred to another location. I then left my publication about the prison in the library. Later, I was recognised on the street by an ex-convict. A long-serving prisoner, not exactly a laughing matter. He walked straight up to me and asked if I was a doctor. I then replied in the affirmative and was glad he walked on.

KOOZ The title New Neighbours is striking: 1,200 prisoners moved in as “neighbours”, whom the local residents would never meet. Did your drawings outside the prison serve to bridge that divide, or did they highlight its inescapability? More broadly, what role can art play in addressing urban conditions where communities are adjacent yet socially or spatially disconnected?

BLMy work does not take rank and file into account. It connects people, but that can have both positive and negative consequences. Sometimes it is good if people get to know each other and other times it is simply better if they never see each other (again).

The inmates showed hardly any interest in those living around the prison. Why should they? Conversely, the local residents were quite interested in how things were going with their opposite neighbours. ‘Who are they?’ I sometimes heard. My story gives a face to the prison. The UFO content has receded, although the belief remains that it is no fun living opposite more than a thousand thieves, burglars, murderers, rapists, and so on.

Using art in a community is inherently complex. Organising a flea market, sports activity, scavenger hunt or barbecue is easier, cheaper and more likely to achieve the desired (social) results. They give a community an opportunity to show its good face, but generally shun the problematic sides, the inside of a neighbourhood. Art collides with resistance almost from the start and is thus immediately where it needs to be. It exposes something, digs something up, shows what is unknown, shows the barbs etc... These are problematic trajectories with an uncertain outcome. It stays far away from the predictable outcome of a treasure hunt or bicycle race. Art does not necessarily lead to something better, but it does lead to something different — often, to interventions that are haunting and with which a community identifies in the long term. The condition is that an art project has ears and eyes, develops in a social sense and does not manifest itself as an undiscovered fact (like a statue on a pedestal).

KOOZYou have drawn not only in public spaces but also inside people’s homes. What changes when you bring your lines into a private living room instead of a street corner? Does crossing that threshold shift the meaning of your work, and how do you navigate the intimate responsibility of marking someone’s personal space?

BLIn living rooms, architecture is turning itself inside out. It is no longer the rain that erases a drawing (or a dog that pees against it), but an occupant who determines what is and is not allowed. It is a reign of the square metre, usually in a treasure trove of stories. I am then careful and discreet, careful not to knock anything over and wipe chalk powder off chairs and tables. I put on a creditable appearance, just out of decency. I often eat with them, meet pets, friends and family. It goes much further than on the street. In case no one is home the next day, I am given the house key. I become a kind of resident. Once I signify an interior, several residents want a drawing in the house… It creates expectations and obligations.

Specific to drawings on interiors is that people want to keep them. They ask if I fix the chalk. They assign a different value to it than to a drawing on the street. In my stories, I work out the potential of this changing value assignment.

KOOZYou’ve faced resistance in public space—from police interventions to wary shopkeepers. You once noted that “public space seems to resist artistic interventions.” Can you share an instance where your work encountered strong opposition, and how you navigated that? Do these moments of tension become part of the artwork itself?

BLIn Istanbul, I was besieged by schoolchildren. They wanted chalk and I was struggling with a shortage at the time. In defence, I then tapped one of the boys with the spirit level. When his friends fired pebbles at me with catapults in revenge, I sought refuge with Hassan, a carpenter I was on good terms with. Fearing that the parents would come to get redress, I no longer dared to go into the neighbourhood. He assured me not to worry so much. ‘We all beat our children,’ he said. I then managed to recover and the children kept their heads down.

KOOZYour work doesn’t end with drawing; you document your projects through writing, capturing encounters and assembling them into books. Do you see this as an extension of the artwork itself? How does translating a visual, spatial intervention into language alter the way you reflect on space, community, and architecture?

BLIn the places I would most like to draw, no one can go. That's in people's heads. When I started drawing on the streets, I did not yet write down the stories. Only later did I realise that chalk and text is a fertile mixture. The ephemeral drawings and everything that happens around them can be fixed with words. Drawing and writing became condemned to each other. In the early 2000s, publisher Roma Publications and I started making newspapers and publications. In time, there was so much text and images that they developed an ebook library for me, a personalised digital platform where I currently publish everything.

In the text I am currently working on, the raised voice of the little boy in Istanbul is an important tipping point. The incident takes place in a port area where young Russians arrive on their escape from conscription. Further out in the city, protests against Erdogan are taking place. The water of the Bosphorus ripples quietly against the shore. The sunsets are beautiful. With my drawing ruler, I defend art. The world impresses me to ever-greater degrees. I have become more cautious, less at ease, more on guard — though I fight against it.

KOOZYour practice shares an affinity with urban design ideas like “tactical interventions” or “urban acupuncture”—small, precise gestures that reveal deeper urban conditions. What do you think architects and urban planners can learn from your approach?

BLI learn a lot from architects and urban planners. If I could comment on their work, I would say: you would do well to steer building projects with greater warmth, more could be invested in getting to know residents and users. It is too convenient to set courses based on state statistics and effectiveness. Residents and users are flesh and blood, they have names and a feeling. I believe decisions are harder to make when people know each other. Involving residents and users slows down construction projects and that is necessary. Directing urban planning interventions in a problem-oriented (rather than solution-oriented) way can counteract social flattening. It is a huge job and it does not lead to a solution, but it is worth the effort to turn it around. It is learnable.

Bio

Bart Lodewijks makes large scale, linear chalk drawings in public and private spaces. The drawings can be found on building facades, in hospitals and offices, but also inside private homes and the surrounding streets. His distinct abstract drawings respond to the social context in which they are made. For his long-term project, the artist documents the process in writing, photography, film and lectures. Images and texts come together in books, made available through art publisher Roma Publications.

Shumi Bose is chief editor at KoozArch. She is an educator, curator and editor in the field of architecture and architectural history. Shumi is a Senior Lecturer in architectural history at Central Saint Martins and also teaches at the Royal College of Art, the Architectural Association and the School of Architecture at Syracuse University in London. She has curated widely, including exhibitions at the Venice Biennale of Architecture, the Victoria and Albert Museum and the Royal Institute of British Architects. In 2020 she founded Holdspace, a digital platform for extracurricular discussions in architectural education, and currently serves as trustee for the Architecture Foundation.