Jay Kaes

Interview

Jay Kaes is a Spanish visual artist based in London who works across muralism, illustration and graphic design. He has painted murals in over 20 countries, developing a distinctive visual language that merges realism, comics and technology into a style he defines as Glitch Pop.

His work questions the perception of reality and celebrates imperfection through figurative compositions, expressive characters and references to contemporary digital culture. Throughout his career, he has collaborated with institutions such as the Santander Foundation and exhibited his work internationally, establishing himself as a recognised voice within the contemporary mural art scene.

Your work exists within a muralism scene that has become increasingly professionalised. How has the transition been from painting in public space to operating within a system of commissions, budgets, and clients?

To be honest, painting in public space is a language that came naturally to me as a child, and it’s something I’ve dedicated a large part of my life to. That said, I didn’t always want to turn it into a business. Over time, I realised that making a living from something I genuinely enjoy and finding fulfilment in my work was a privilege worth fighting for.

What I always knew was that my priority was to develop my own visual language and build a strong reputation. Growing up in Spain and studying Fine Arts in the Basque Country, I received an artistic education that, in some ways, encouraged a certain scepticism towards the idea of making money from art outside the traditional system. It wasn’t until I moved to London, after years of working night shifts in jobs completely unrelated to creativity, that I understood that making a living from your artistic practice doesn’t mean selling out or compromising your authenticity. It means being able to build a life on your own terms and have ownership of your time.

Working on commissions also forces you to reflect on where your boundaries lie. For me, that’s where true freedom exists: in being able to choose which projects to accept and which to decline. My work does not promote racist, xenophobic, or exclusionary ideas. On the contrary, I aim for it to be inclusive and open to dialogue. I’m not interested in imposing a particular worldview, but in engaging with public space through my own visual language.

Once you understand that, the romantic notion of the isolated artist—or the morally superior artist who shouldn’t be paid for their work—begins to disappear. Ultimately, working with clients, institutions, or communities is about finding common ground without giving up your identity.

Ironically, much of what I know about that came from painting on the street: learning to coexist with different opinions, to be diplomatic, and to find creative solutions in all kinds of situations while remaining true to my own style.

Living and working in London, how do you perceive the differences in the way the sector is structured compared to cities such as Barcelona?

What I can speak to comes from having chosen to stay in England for more than a decade. One of the biggest differences I notice is cultural. In the UK, it is generally accepted that someone can love what they do, enjoy it, and at the same time make a living from it. Artistic practice is recognised as professional work that deserves to be fairly paid.

During my younger years in Spain, I often encountered a different mindset, where work is more closely associated with sacrifice. There seems to be an underlying idea that if you enjoy doing something—like painting—then charging for it somehow feels uncomfortable, as though the enjoyment diminishes its professional value.

I believe this mentality has historically had a negative impact on the cultural sector. You can see it, for example, in the number of projects or festivals that offer artists visibility but little or no financial compensation. That may be useful at the beginning of a career, but it is not a sustainable model. If we want a truly professional sector, artists must be paid for their work, regardless of their age or level of experience.

Another important difference is the professional relationship between artists, clients, and institutions. Within established organisations, it is far more common to work with clear contracts, deposits, defined schedules, and payments made on time. A concept sketch is recognised as work, and therefore it has value. That creates greater stability and professional dignity for the artist.

I don’t know Barcelona well enough to make a direct comparison with London, but I have had very positive experiences there, and many artist friends of mine live in the city. I see a very diverse creative ecosystem. I also sense that the private sector is becoming increasingly interested in collaborating with artists because it understands that original artwork brings identity, quality, and a more authentic connection with the community.

Beyond the differences between cities, I believe there is still a great deal of work to do before society fully recognises the true value of public art. Murals do more than transform spaces; they create a sense of belonging, encourage critical thinking, and strengthen people’s relationship with their surroundings.

When we talk about the cities of the future, I believe we should think more carefully about how to make public spaces places that people genuinely enjoy and feel a sense of ownership over.

More generally, I feel that many projects in Spain are still conceived with a strong dependence on public funding, whereas I believe there are also significant opportunities to engage the private sector and create shared value for everyone involved.

In a city like London, where the creative market is larger but also more competitive, how is the value of an urban artist’s work negotiated?

I think that depends very much on the individual and on the stage of their career. A city like London offers countless opportunities, but it is also incredibly competitive. Almost every type of project exists here, but it is equally easy to lose your way if you are not clear about who you are and how you want to work.

In my experience, the value of an urban artist’s work is not negotiated solely on the quality of the artwork itself. Of course artistic ability matters, but what really creates long-term opportunities is trust.

An impressive Instagram profile may catch someone’s attention, but what ultimately makes a client invest in you is having seen how you work, how professionally you conduct yourself, and whether you keep your word.

I remember a piece of advice my aunt gave me when I first arrived in England. She said: “Whatever you do, be honest in your work and true to your word, and you’ll eventually find your place.” Over time, I’ve realised she was absolutely right.

Shortcuts, appearances, or clever tactics may work for a while, but in a city like London everything eventually comes to light. What truly lasts is your reputation.

That’s why I believe being professional, reliable, and easy to work with is just as important as having strong technical skills. In fact, I would argue that, in the long run, human relationships matter more than digital ones.

Most of the significant opportunities I’ve had throughout my career did not come from a social media post, but through recommendations from people who had worked with me before.

At the end of the day, I make my living through art because it is an honest way to earn one’s living. I have nothing to hide. I can stand behind what I do, I’m proud of it, and I deeply value the human relationships that grow around the work itself. For me, that is where an artist’s true value is really negotiated.

Throughout your career, how has your relationship with money and the financial sustainability of your practice evolved?

My relationship with money has changed significantly over the years. At the beginning, I earned a little by taking on commissions, painting caps, or completing small custom projects, but I always saw it as something secondary. I had accepted the idea that art was a passion and that my financial future depended on finding a “real” job.

However, once I entered the job market, I realised something very simple: the work I had devoted the most time, energy, and commitment to had always been painting. Even while trying to build stability in other industries, I continued spending every spare minute painting, travelling to projects, and developing my own visual language.

Eventually, I reached a conclusion that changed my life. If I was capable of working sixty hours a week to build someone else’s project, I could dedicate those same sixty hours to building my own. That was the moment I decided to commit to my artistic practice professionally.

It wasn’t an easy journey. I lost a lot of weight, and for years I worked several part-time jobs while trying to establish myself as an artist. I worked in a record shop, designed for a clothing brand, and later became the resident artist at Red Gallery in East London, where I helped organise exhibitions, events, and projects for other artists.

Financially, those were very difficult years, but they were also the years in which I built my reputation.

Over time, that consistency began to pay off. The projects became larger, new opportunities emerged, and I was eventually able to dedicate myself entirely to my artistic practice. Today, not only have I built a sustainable career in a city like London, but my work also contributes to the stability of my family.

My partner, Lucía, now works alongside me, and together we manage our time and have built a way of life around something that began as a creative obsession and eventually became a profession.

Looking back, I believe the greatest change wasn’t financial—it was mental. I stopped seeing art as something I had to justify and began to see it as work that is every bit as dignified and legitimate as any other profession.

Fees in muralism remain highly uneven depending on the context. From your international experience, would you say that fairer models are emerging, or is the field still largely precarious?

I think the situation is complex because our culture is rooted in deeply personal motivations. Most people who begin painting in public space don’t do it for money; they do it because they feel the need to express themselves, share an idea, or engage with their surroundings.

In fact, much of urban art culture has historically been built by people who invested their own time and resources to create something for others. That generosity and willingness to share are part of the essence of this practice, but it’s equally important to find a balance.

For many years, artists have worked almost altruistically, taking part in community projects, collaborations, or festivals with very little financial compensation. That can be an excellent learning experience at the beginning of a career, but it is not a sustainable model for building a professional practice.

I believe the situation has improved considerably since I started. Artists such as Banksy, Stik, and many others helped demonstrate that urban art has both cultural and economic value. As a result, more institutions, companies, and organisations now recognise the importance of supporting artists financially and creating more professional working conditions.

That said, it remains an unequal field. There are highly professional and respectful ways of working, but opportunities are still limited and vary enormously depending on the context, the country, or the organisation you’re collaborating with.

You might be surprised to learn that appearances can be deceptive. Projects that look highly professional don’t always pay artists, and even well-known names in street art sometimes end up working without financial compensation—driven by prestige, appearances, or, at best, by their love for what they do.

For that reason, I also believe artists themselves have a responsibility to value their own work. If we don’t recognise that our time, ideas, and experience have value, it becomes much harder for others to recognise it as well.

What I do see, however, is a very positive shift in the wider perception of urban art. When I started, it was viewed with much greater suspicion. Today there is far broader social and institutional acceptance, and more people understand that murals can contribute cultural value, identity, and a sense of community to our cities.

That’s precisely why this year we’ll be celebrating the third edition of Trieze in London, a project created by a collective of artists. Alongside exhibiting our work, we organise workshops, talks, and public discussions designed to strengthen our community and create spaces for dialogue around the challenges facing the sector.

The exhibition opens on 13 October, and throughout the week we’ll host a range of activities. One of the most exciting events will be a conversation on copyright and artificial intelligence in urban art with Professor Enrico Bonadio, an intellectual property specialist at City St George’s, University of London.

I believe initiatives like this are important because they help urban art continue to evolve—not only through artistic practice itself, but also through collective reflection and the development of stronger structures for future generations of artists.

Beyond being paid for creating the work itself, how do you manage copyright in your own practice? Do you feel you retain control over how your work is used afterwards, or does that control gradually disappear?

This is an area where I’ve learned a great deal through experience. It has also helped to be a member of the Association of Illustrators in London and to study the resources produced by professional organisations such as the Graphic Artists Guild in New York, which devote significant effort to educating artists about their rights.

I think one of the biggest problems is that many artists simply don’t realise that every original creative work automatically generates a set of rights that belong to its creator.

When a client commissions a piece, they are not purchasing all the rights to that work. They are only acquiring the specific rights that both parties have agreed upon.

That’s why I always work with contracts that clearly define image licensing, usage rights, timeframes, and the contexts in which the artwork may be used. This not only protects the artist but also prevents misunderstandings with the client.

There are certain terms that make me particularly cautious, such as exclusive rights, commercial rights, or any assignment of rights in perpetuity. That doesn’t mean these agreements should never exist, but I believe they must be negotiated transparently and accompanied by appropriate financial compensation.

In my experience, promotional usage rights are the most common and the easiest to manage, whereas any form of commercial exploitation requires a separate and much more specific conversation.

Ultimately, contracts are the most important tool we have for maintaining a degree of control over our work once it has been completed. But even with strong agreements in place, I still believe that the most important thing is to build relationships based on trust and maintain open communication with the people who use our work.

In cities like London, where urban art is heavily used as part of cultural branding, do you think artists receive sufficient recognition and compensation when their work becomes part of a city’s image, tourism, or branding?

I think it’s a complex issue because urban art creates value in many different ways.

In cities like London, I’ve observed a recurring pattern: neighbourhoods that were once seen as peripheral or neglected become vibrant and desirable places thanks to the arrival of artists, creatives, and cultural initiatives. Murals, graffiti, and other forms of public expression help shape a visual identity that attracts visitors, investment, and economic activity.

However, artists often don’t share in the value they help generate. It’s common to see certain areas using urban art as part of their identity or tourism appeal, while the artworks themselves eventually disappear and the artists rarely receive compensation that reflects the impact they have had.

I’ve also seen the visual language of urban art increasingly adopted by advertising campaigns and branding strategies. I don’t necessarily see this as a negative development. I collaborate with brands myself, and I believe genuinely interesting projects can emerge when there is mutual respect.

For me, the key is that the collaboration creates value for both sides and that artistic integrity is not simply subordinated to commercial objectives.

Ultimately, every artist finds their own balance. Some prioritise the financial security that certain contracts provide, while others place greater emphasis on preserving their creative independence. Personally, I try to reconcile both.

I believe the real value of my work lies in its originality and in building a distinctive artistic voice over time. In the end, that identity is the most valuable asset an artist can have.

So I would say that recognition of urban artists has improved significantly over the past few years, but there is still an important conversation to be had about how the cultural, economic, and symbolic value generated by our work can be shared more fairly within our cities.

Have you experienced situations where your work has been used without providing any clear return for you? How do you deal with that professionally?

Yes, many times—and it still happens occasionally. In fact, as your work becomes more visible, the likelihood of unauthorised uses naturally increases.

These days I keep an Excel spreadsheet tracking potential copyright infringements, and whenever necessary I seek advice from lawyers specialising in intellectual property.

Some situations have been quite unusual. I remember receiving a message from someone in Thailand who had recognised one of my murals being reproduced almost exactly by another artist for a local business. They sent me photographs and supporting information in case I wanted to pursue legal action. Before taking any formal steps, however, I decided to contact the artist directly to understand the circumstances, and we eventually reached an amicable agreement.

Something similar happened with a portrait I had painted of my partner, Lucía. Some time later, an almost identical reproduction appeared in a workshop in Egypt. Once again, I contacted the artist directly, explained the situation, and we resolved it professionally.

Beyond direct copies, there are also less obvious forms of misuse. I’ve seen photographs of my murals being sold in local markets, and I’ve had clients who—without any ill intent—have continued using designs created for a specific commission as part of their long-term commercial identity.

Most of the time these situations don’t arise from bad faith but from a lack of understanding. Many people assume that because an artwork exists in public space, it is free for anyone to use.

That’s why I believe it’s so important to talk about intellectual property within urban art and to work with contracts that clearly define what uses are permitted and what uses are not.

Ultimately, handling these situations professionally comes down to three things: documenting, communicating, and taking action when necessary. Most conflicts can be resolved through an open and honest conversation, but it’s essential that artists understand their rights and know how to protect them.

The growth of muralism has also led to greater competition and, in some cases, downward pressure on fees. How do you see this dynamic from within the profession?

I think it’s perfectly natural that as muralism grows, competition grows alongside it. There are more artists, more festivals, more agencies, and more people interested in working in the field. That creates new opportunities, but it also means that each artist has to identify what truly makes them distinctive.

Personally, I’ve never approached my work by trying to compete on price. I believe there is a point below which it becomes almost impossible to sustain a professional practice over the long term. Constantly working beneath that threshold may solve an immediate problem, but it rarely leads to a sustainable career. As we say in Spanish, it’s bread for today and hunger for tomorrow.

If competition grows faster than demand, the market inevitably becomes more demanding. In that context, I believe the best strategy is not to be the cheapest, but to develop a distinctive artistic voice, produce consistently strong work, and build trusting relationships with the people and institutions you collaborate with.

Originality remains one of the hardest qualities to replace.

I also think it’s important to be sensible about pricing. I’ve seen artists damage their careers both by charging far too little and by increasing their fees too quickly. In either case, there’s a risk of creating expectations that aren’t sustainable.

For me, the important thing is to understand the true value of your work, calculate your costs honestly, and allow your career to grow steadily over time.

Ultimately, price is only one part of the conversation. Reputation, consistency, and the quality of your professional relationships usually have a much greater impact on the longevity of an artistic career than any short-term pricing strategy.

When working with institutions or brands, how much room do you actually have to negotiate the terms, the message, or the future use of the artwork?

Every commission is different, and every negotiation has its own particular circumstances. That said, in my experience, much of the negotiation begins long before anyone sits down to discuss budgets or contracts.

When an institution or brand approaches me, they usually already know my work, my visual language, and the values behind it. My practice has always been rooted in a positive and inclusive approach, and there are certain subjects I simply won’t work with. Because of that, significant disagreements over the content of a project are relatively rare.

What I do consider essential is clear communication and mutual respect from the outset.

I’m also deeply interested in the relationship between the artwork and the space in which it will exist. I try to ensure that every project retains its artistic identity while responding meaningfully to its specific context. When both parties understand that, negotiations tend to progress quite naturally because, ultimately, everyone wants the project to succeed in the best possible way.

When it comes to image rights, clients generally require promotional rights to communicate and publicise their projects, and that’s usually a standard part of the agreement. However, I always seek to retain control over any commercial use of my work and negotiate separately any exploitation that extends beyond promoting the original project.

I also never assign all of my copyright, and I always insist on preserving my moral right to be recognised as the author of the work. I’m proud of what I create, and I believe it’s important that authorship remains permanently connected to the artwork. To me, that’s a matter of respect—both for the artist and for the work itself.

Ultimately, the best collaborations are those in which neither party tries to dominate the other. When there is trust, transparency, and a shared vision, there is usually more than enough room for everyone to contribute meaningful value to the project.

In your mural Força Plural in Nou Barris, there is a clear commitment to direct and diverse representation. How do you balance creating an accessible image without relying on overly obvious or simplified visual codes?

I think that after many years of painting in public space—especially at a large scale—you naturally develop a visual language that works for you while also connecting with people in an intuitive way.

Over time, you realise that communicating doesn’t necessarily mean explaining everything literally.

Personally, I try to avoid messages that are too closed or overly explicit. I have great respect for works that take a direct political or social stance, but I’m more interested in creating images that remain open to interpretation. I like the idea that each person can discover something different within the same work, and that its meaning isn’t completely resolved at first glance.

For me, a great mural has more in common with a film than with a poster. It tells a story in layers.

Its scale already provides visual impact, so I don’t feel the need to reinforce the message through overly obvious symbols. I’d rather create an image that invites observation and leaves room for the viewer to complete part of the narrative through their own experience.

In the case of Força Plural, I didn’t want diversity to be represented solely through an explicit message. I wanted it to emerge through the coexistence, within sport, of different identities, sensitivities, and ways of seeing oneself reflected in public space.

That’s why I’ve always understood public art as a space for dialogue rather than imposition.

In many ways, I see murals as one of the last truly open voices within the urban landscape. Unlike advertising—or other forms of communication designed to persuade us of something specific—art has the freedom to ask questions, provoke reflection, and leave space for interpretation.

That’s where I believe its true value lies.

In works like this, is it more important to you that the message is immediate and easily understood, or that it contains deeper layers of meaning?

I think both are important.

I’m interested in creating an immediate visual impact—a kind of statement that captures the attention of someone walking past. In public space, you often have only a few seconds to connect with someone, so that first impression matters.

What truly interests me, however, comes afterwards.

I try to create images with multiple layers of meaning that can’t be exhausted by a single interpretation. I enjoy incorporating characters, symbols, visual references, and subtle details that allow each viewer to construct their own reading of the work.

Perhaps that comes from my interest in perception and in the idea that reality is never entirely objective. Two people can look at exactly the same image and arrive at completely different meanings, and to me that’s something positive.

I don’t feel the need to control exactly what the viewer should think. In fact, when a work can be summed up in a single sentence, I sometimes feel it loses part of its mystery.

I’d rather it function like an open conversation—something with an accessible point of entry for everyone, but which also rewards those who choose to stop, spend a little more time, and look more closely.

A monumental scale already provides presence and impact. What I’m searching for afterwards is depth.

In a way, I’m interested in creating work that can be understood quickly but takes much longer to fully reveal itself.

In projects such as Nou Sentit Urbà, how do you assess the balance between production conditions, artistic freedom, and recognition of the artist’s work?

My experience working with Rebobinart was genuinely very positive.

From a production point of view, we were given everything we needed to develop the project, and that’s something I always appreciate. You notice the difference when you’re working with people who have real experience producing murals and understand the practical requirements involved, because it allows the artist to focus on what matters most: creating the best possible work.

It was also important that the brief was open enough and that the proposed themes naturally aligned with my own artistic concerns. When that kind of alignment exists, artistic freedom stops feeling like a constant negotiation, and the entire project develops much more organically.

For me, the balance between production, artistic freedom, and recognition is achieved when everyone involved understands their role within the project. The artist needs the right conditions to produce an honest piece of work; the organisation needs the project to succeed and connect with its context; and both sides benefit when communication is clear and the relationship is built on trust.

Another aspect I value enormously is documentation. Murals are temporary by nature, and good documentation ultimately becomes part of the life of the work itself.

In this respect, the interviews, photography, and overall communication surrounding the project were all excellent.

Generally speaking, I enjoy working on projects where there is professional production, genuine creative freedom, and a sincere commitment to recognising and contextualising the work of artists. I believe that’s the model that produces the best outcomes for everyone involved.

Comparing different contexts, where do you think the best conditions currently exist for working as an urban artist: in cities like London or in more local scenes such as Barcelona?

To be fair, my experience in Barcelona has been very positive, although I know cities such as London, Madrid, Bilbao, and Santander much better because I’ve spent considerably more time working there.

That said, I believe the conditions for building a career as an urban artist depend far more on the professionalism of a project and the people behind it than on the city itself.

I’ve encountered extremely well-managed projects in many different countries, and I’ve also experienced precarious working conditions in major international capitals.

If I had to identify one difference, I’d say that abroad there is generally a stronger tradition of collaboration with the private sector and a greater acceptance of the idea that artistic work has economic value. That creates more professional opportunities, but it also brings much greater competition.

More than a geographical difference, I think it’s ultimately a question of mindset.

When an organisation genuinely understands the value of creative work, everything tends to function better: budgets are more realistic, processes are clearer, and relationships with artists are healthier. When art is viewed as something secondary or expendable, difficulties tend to arise regardless of which country you’re working in.

I also place great value on the professionalisation of aspects that often go unnoticed, such as health and safety, insurance, technical planning, and working protocols.

Muralists regularly work with heavy machinery, scaffolding, and environments that involve real physical risks. In that respect, I’ve seen a very positive evolution over recent years, and I believe the sector has made significant progress in protecting the people who work within it.

Ultimately, I don’t think there is a perfect city for working as an urban artist. What I do believe is that the more professional, transparent, and respectful the ecosystem surrounding a project becomes, the better the conditions are for everyone involved.

Fortunately, I see more and more examples of that happening around the world—including the work you’re doing in Barcelona.

Beyond production itself, what do you think the sector still needs in order to become genuinely sustainable for artists in the long term?

I think what we’re missing most is a shift in the way society understands the value of art and urban culture.

Too often, art is still treated as something secondary or decorative, when in reality it plays a fundamental role in shaping how we understand our cities, our identities, and our ability to imagine different futures.

For the sector to become genuinely sustainable, producing more murals or organising more festivals isn’t enough. Institutions, businesses, and the public all need to recognise that behind every artwork there are professionals who require time, resources, and financial stability in order to do their work.

Artists pay rent, buy materials, purchase insurance, and cover everyday expenses just like everyone else.

I also believe we need a greater willingness to invest in urban culture—not only from public institutions or private companies, but from society as a whole.

Investing in urban art means investing in more humane public spaces, in critical thinking, in emotional wellbeing, and in stronger communities.

We often talk about infrastructure, technology, or economic growth, but we sometimes forget that people also need beauty, inspiration, and places where they can reconnect both with themselves and with one another.

For me, public art plays a particularly important role because it remains one of the few forms of culture that is genuinely accessible to everyone. It doesn’t require buying a ticket or belonging to a particular social group. It’s simply there, in the street, available to anyone willing to pause for a moment and look.

That’s why I believe the future of the sector depends on recognising that art is not an expendable luxury but an essential part of a healthy society.

When a community invests in culture, it isn’t only supporting artists—it is also investing in its own capacity to reflect, imagine, and evolve.

Looking at the current state of urban art, what do you think is working well, and what do you feel remains an ongoing challenge?

Overall, what makes me happiest is seeing how much public perception of urban art has changed over the past few years.

When I first started, many people automatically associated graffiti and painting in public space with crime or vandalism. Today, the situation is very different. More and more people recognise that behind many of these practices there is creativity, dedication, and a genuine desire to contribute something meaningful to public space.

I love seeing people of all ages come over to talk to us while we’re working. It’s also encouraging to see the growing number of collectors, institutions, and individuals who are willing to support these practices financially. All of this shows that urban culture has succeeded in opening doors that once seemed unimaginable.

I also believe urban art is helping reconnect the public with art itself at a time when, in many other contexts, the viewer seems to have been pushed into the background.

If I had to point to one area where we still have work to do, I would say it’s fostering more dialogue within our own community.

I’m not particularly interested in purist attitudes or overly rigid and elitist positions—whether they come from the worlds of graffiti, street art, muralism, or academia. I’ve always believed that the richness of this culture lies precisely in its ability to bring together different people, influences, and perspectives.

I’d also like to see younger generations devote more time to developing their own artistic voice and to learning about the history of the culture they’re becoming part of. There’s nothing wrong with ambition, but I believe the most meaningful careers are usually built through curiosity, passion, and consistency—not simply through the pursuit of visibility or rapid recognition on social media.

Perhaps what attracted me most to graffiti when I was young was precisely its rejection of elitism. It was an open culture where what mattered most was what you created, not where you came from.

I hope we never lose that ability to embrace different perspectives and to build genuine communities.

In the end, cultures grow by building bridges, and they become poorer when they begin building too many walls.

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