We had a conversation with Jet Le Parti, an artist who defies definition—a multifaceted creator, embodying an art form charged with an unparalleled communicative power.
Writing, sound, and painting intertwine—creating infinite textures, free from all conventions.
Le Parti reflects on the fear of being misunderstood, on the distance that sometimes arises between artist and audience. Art has shaped him, and for him, it is an inevitable manifestation of living.
Vibrant images and evocative sounds stand in contrast to any conventional or traditional language; between Brooklyn and Berlin, the artist’s works are enriched with visceral intensity, moving fluidly between abstract expressionism and conceptual art, in a rebellious and ongoing dialogue between emotion and idea.
When did you realize that art was not just something you did, but something you were?
I've never thought of myself as an artist, really.
It wasn’t something I was seeking out or knew much about growing up.
From my experience, art isn’t something you try to become—it’s a result of a way of being. The byproduct of a lived experience, expressed as you go.
Not by imitating or playing a role, but by possessing and developing the qualities, traits, and curiosities that make it inevitable. You just do the work, and it carries over into your life.
Growing up in a military family, did you ever feel the need to "desert" your personal history? Or was art the way to reconcile yourself with it?
I have no qualms about where I come from, nor have I ever had any conflict with it. It’s all I know.
Art was never about reconciling my past—more so, it was a reaction to the present moment.
How much of your work is inspired by New York? What is your relationship with this city? Do you feel like you belong somewhere?
I feel like it’s inspired my life more than my work. New York is a hard city to work in. It’s hard enough to eat twice a day. Even when you’re finally up for some time, you’re still likely down on the year. All I’ve ever done there is hustle, scheme, and make work in the background when I had the chance.
Now that I’m in London and away, I feel its influence more—especially in my later visual work.
Spending time there made me more attuned to the industrial urban experience—the systems, the decay, the graffiti, the rot, the markings of others who have been through it, the covering up, the disconnect from one reality to another as you jump from neighborhood to neighborhood, train stop to stop.
The desensitization, the dissociation—walking past someone in crisis without a second glance, everyone thinking they're at the center of the world. Nowhere else is quite like it.
Despite the hard times there, I deeply love and appreciate it.
While I don’t feel like I belong anywhere in particular, it feels like home.
Have you ever been afraid that a work was too sincere to be shown? That someone could read into you more than you wanted?
Previously, when I first started, yes—especially with how personal and dense the material was.
But over time, after showing work, I realized it’s unlikely to be received to that extent anyway.
People won’t always see what you see or know how to read what you've expressed. Without you explaining, most of that information is lost.
If anything, I was never scared of not being understood or someone reading too deeply into me. I was just scared of being alone.
What happens when a work no longer resembles you?
You just make more.
Is there more pride or more protection in your rejection of the art market? Have you ever wanted, even for a moment, to give up and see your work in a museum?
I wouldn't even give it the power to affect my sense of pride, nor do I feel the need to protect myself from it. It’s not scary or meaningful in a way that holds weight.
I wouldn’t say I’m rejecting it—I’m just not involved.
When I was younger, and a lot more naïve about how the world fits together, I had hopes of engaging with institutions because I wanted to share and communicate with others like me.
I’d love the opportunity to collaborate with an aligned institution in any capacity.
But I’m indifferent to whether it happens or not—especially in a time where they seem more involved in suppressing artists' voices than uplifting them.
What keeps you awake at night: the fear of not being understood or the suspicion of having been understood too easily?
I'm not scared of being misunderstood, nor do I fear being read too easily. In a lot of ways, I wish I could be read easier.
At the end of the day, people will appropriate what you’ve done however they want—which is out of my control and of little concern.
Thinking of death has probably taken the most from me—in terms of sleep, time, presence—but it’s also given like nothing else.
Painting, writing, composing sounds: what do you do when you can't do any of the three?
I’ve been so limited the past few years moving around. I spend most of my time just working on material in my head.
If I can, I note it somewhere and come back to it later.
When I have the chance, I get it out.
Is there a phrase, a noise, or a color that returns obsessively in your work?
There are some cliché things I tell myself sometimes—generalizations like there is no reality, if you’re too afraid to roll the dice, you'll never throw a six, life is not fair, it comes once a year, try not to run away, tomorrow is another day, and other glass-half-empty, half-full euphemisms—partially to mock my younger self, but also to keep things more lighthearted when times get somber.
Visually, I've had phases. A strong affinity for certain hues—especially blues and greys. But I try not to be held to one style for too long.
For sound and writing, I try to be open-ended, but I'm sure certain tones come up often. In terms of themes, there are different ideas and approaches going on in different works, but generally, they're rooted in some existential perspective regardless of the medium.
What do you see in a painting before you even paint it? An emotion, a scene, a word, or emptiness?
When I first started, my mind was overactive and unraveling, and the works realized themselves however they could.
The thoughts caught up to them in a flow, as scenes played out intensely throughout the process & there was always a sense of overwhelming feeling involved.
It always felt like being wired into a vehicle—arriving at realizations through the work rather than stepping fully outside of it.
Now, I see it more as a puzzle. I feel a bit less loose, more calculated, but more informed by autonomy—understanding how I can contextually fit what’s being said into the right visual framework.
Is there a work you’ve never created because it would mean stripping yourself of all defenses?
No, not really. I always try to be honest with what I do, and I’d take on any risk if it feels right.
If someone wanted to understand who you are without ever meeting you, what work should they look at or listen to?
I feel like it would be best if we just met.
If you need a reference, To Be Hung, Window, or Face in Cave could be a decent starting point—they’re more synthesized journal-like works rather than just visual expression. But I wouldn’t say there’s a singular piece that encapsulates everything.
Do you have any muses or artists who inspire you?
I love art in all its forms. I’m always inspired by seeing how others approach their work, regardless of medium—especially when there’s real weight behind it.
I get a hit of passion out of it, or I get envious—jealous in the best way—that feeling of I’ve never seen/thought about something like that in that way or How did they do that? or I wish I could work in that essence.
When you dig into other mediums and archives, you realize history is filled with overlooked "greats" and "undeniable" talents.
The truth is, those "undeniable" ones often achieve that status through a mix of fortune, positioning, and creative skill—sometimes more of one, sometimes a balance of all three.
Personally, I can be moved just as intensely by an unknown artist's song on the internet as I could be by a piece of historical visual art, a novel, a film, or a poem. Trying to pinpoint heavier influences over others is somewhat arbitrary when considering inspiration for my practice.
Would you like to notice yourself in one of your works and try to describe yourself?
I think all the work speaks for me better than I ever could. If there's any way to describe myself, it would probably be best put through the work itself.
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Teresa Borriello
Freelance journalist and editor based in Naples. I wrote about people, fashion, food, sustainability, and social justice - and other things. I write about what I care.
@teresaborriello