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Steve, most people know you today for your colorful skulls. But where did it all begin for you?

In the Brussels metro, the early '90s. That was real underground—literally and figuratively. Everything had to be fast. You had five minutes before you had to disappear. But that rush, that energy, is still in my work today.

Then came the first tolerance zones for graffiti. And that changed everything. Suddenly, you could stay. Two, three days on a mural. Artists respected each other. It felt like an open-air gallery. That's when it hit me—this isn't just about speed. This is about building something.

 

 

You even opened your own store, right?

Yes, in 2007 my wife Jera and I opened a shop that sold everything for street artists—spray cans, markers, gear. It became a community hub. We kept it running until 2013, when the demand for my own art became too big to juggle both. So we made the jump and focused fully on the art.

You now have your own gallery, too.

That was always the goal—to be independent. We run our own gallery in Antwerp, where we control how the work is shown, sold, shared. But that doesn't mean we isolate ourselves. I actively collaborate with other galleries, especially internationally. Those connections expand visibility and keep the work moving. Art has to travel. You grow by staying true to yourself, but also by opening up.

 

 

Your skulls have become your signature. Since when?

Since 2013. Before that, I painted a lot of portraits and animals—more realistic work. Technically solid, but it didn't move me. The skull unlocked something. I know that form inside and out now, which gives me total freedom. I can go wild with color, structure, thread, steel. It's not limiting—it's liberating.

 

 

Some people might say: "Always skulls—doesn't that get repetitive?"

(laughs) That's the beauty of it. Because I know the form so well, I can reinvent it every time. Every series brings new energy, new materials, new emotion. Reinvention is everything. If I ever feel bored, the work suffers. So I keep it fresh—always.

 

 

Your wire sculptures feel fragile, like they might fall apart. Is that intentional?

Absolutely. Life feels like that sometimes—like everything hangs by a thread. But there's also tension, resilience, direction. Wire is the perfect medium to express that: fragility and force in one line.

 

 

You've also worked with big brands, right?

Yes—Aston Martin, Danio, Desperados, Audi, ... various campaigns and murals. As long as I can stay true to my visual language, I enjoy those collaborations. But the best part will always be the freedom of my own work.

 

 

And you became a father in 2015. Has that changed your art?

Completely. I have twins—a boy and a girl. As energetic as my artwork, honestly. Fatherhood brought structure. I used to work all night. Now, there's rhythm. But that rhythm allows me to go deeper. I take more time. Each piece gets more of me.

 

 

What do you hope people take away from your art?

That death doesn't have to be dark. That there's beauty in the temporary. And that underneath it all, we are all connected—not through slogans or politics, but through empathy, through being human. That's the thread I'm always following.