Chevy Noir is a visual artist whose practice moves fluidly between watercolor, abstraction, destruction, and control. His work resists rigidity. Water is allowed to behave like water. Pigment is allowed to run, bleed, escape. Perfection is constructed only to be broken. What emerges are figures and forms that feel emotionally charged — suspended somewhere between intention and surrender.
In this conversation with Reanetse Moeti, Chevy reflects on his journey into art, his relationship with fluid materials, abstraction, imperfection, and the moment when a work finally asks to be left alone. The discussion unfolds slowly, honestly, and without polish — much like the work itself.
This is not an explanation of the work.
It is a window into the thinking, doubt, fatigue, and conviction behind it.
Interview with Chevy Noir
Reanetse Moeti (RM): Can you tell me a bit about your journey — how you first found your way into your craft, and what led you to the kind of work you’re doing today?
Chevy Noir (CN): Okay… my journey.
I always say I knew I could make art from a young age, probably around ten years old. That’s when I realised that drawing came naturally to me. I wasn’t trying, it was just something I could do. Around the same time, I saw my brother making art as well, and that’s when it clicked for me that creativity is something that runs in our family. It’s in our blood, you know — we’re just creative people by nature.
But even though I knew I could make art, I didn’t really practice it seriously for a long time. I didn’t see it as something I could pursue properly. That only changed after COVID. During that time, I was dealing with depression and a lot of mental health struggles. Things were really heavy, and I reached a point where I had to ask myself some hard questions about what I was doing with my life.
I realised that if I was going to struggle — or even if I was going to die — I didn’t want to do it while forcing myself into something that didn’t feel true to me. I wanted to at least be doing something that I was passionate about, something that came naturally, something that didn’t feel like I was constantly fighting myself.
That’s when I decided to really commit to art.
I enrolled at Artist Proof Studios in 2021. I went through the full programme — first year, second year, third year — and completed it in 2023. Last year, 2024, was about transitioning out of that space and figuring out how I exist as an artist beyond an institution.
So yeah… that’s the journey. It wasn’t linear. It came from a place of survival, honestly.
RM: Are there particular tools, materials, or techniques you feel especially connected to?
CN: Water. Fluid Mediums. & Anything That Flows.
I’m really drawn to materials that move on their own, that have their own nature. With watercolor, for example, you don’t fully control what’s going to happen once the pigment touches the water. The more water you add, the freer the pigment becomes. It flows, it spreads, it reacts — and you’re kind of collaborating with it rather than controlling it.
I really like that relationship. I like letting the material do what it wants to do and then responding to it.
That’s also why I’ve started moving into digital work recently, especially animation and Blender. At first, digital felt very rigid to me, very controlled, but I’ve been figuring out how to translate that same sense of fluidity into a digital space. Once I realised that I could still work with movement and flow, even digitally, it started to make sense.
It’s funny because I used to hate abstract art. I really didn’t get it. I’d look at a single drop of paint on a canvas selling for a million and think, “This makes no sense.” I was very against abstraction.
But once I started doing it myself, my perspective changed completely. I realised abstraction isn’t about doing less — it’s about pushing ideas further. You can take abstraction and expand it, complicate it, make it emotional and intentional.
So now, abstraction is actually central to my practice.
RM: What does craftsmanship mean to you, especially in a digital era?
CN: Honestly, craftsmanship is something we probably should have taken more seriously growing up — especially in school.
The way the world is going now, everyone is going to need some kind of craft. Something you can do with your hands, your mind, your skills. That’s where sustainability is. That’s where survival is going.
Digital tools are everywhere, but craftsmanship is still about intention, care, and time. Whether it’s digital or physical, you still have to put yourself into the work. That’s the part that matters.
RM: What is your relationship with imperfection?
CN: I’m a ruminator. I think a lot. I sit with things for a long time.
Someone explained rumination to me recently in a way that really stuck. They said it’s like taking a solution and then mentally exploring all the ways it could fail, all the ways it could be imperfect. That’s very much how my mind works.
So my relationship with imperfection is actually tied to perfection. I look for perfection so that I can disrupt it. I like taking something that feels whole, complete, almost ideal — like the silhouette of a male figure — and then burning into it, painting over it, breaking it apart.
Those marks, those disruptions, those moments where the image breaks down — that’s where imperfection lives. And that’s where the work becomes honest for me.
RM: How do you know when a piece is finished?
CN: I think your body tells you. Your hands tell you. Your mind tells you.
There comes a point where you’re tired — not in a bad way, but in a “this has said what it needs to say” way. I look at the work and it starts making sense on its own. It doesn’t need me anymore.
Sometimes people come into the studio and tell me what they see or feel when they look at a piece, and they’ll say things I never consciously intended. And that’s when I know it’s done — when the work has its own language beyond me.
Am I always happy with the final result? No. Maybe forty percent of the time.
It’s tough. But I think that discomfort keeps me honest.
RM: What’s the most time-consuming work you’ve made so far?
CN: I usually work in series rather than single pieces.
The most time-consuming body of work was my third-year work in 2023. I was working with cyanotype embossing, and that process is intense. You expose the work, you soak it, you emboss it — and each step takes time and patience.
I actually hated parts of that process. It was slow and demanding. That’s why I love watercolor so much — I can complete a piece in a single day if I want to.
But that body of work taught me something really important: experimentation is where everything happens. That’s where you learn, that’s where you grow. Being inside experimentation is the best place an artist can be.
RM: How has working with your hands changed your perception of time and purpose?
CN: It makes you feel responsible for yourself.
When I was working a 9–5, answering emails and sitting behind a screen all day, I’d go home feeling empty. Like I hadn’t actually done anything. Even though I was getting paid, it felt like I was robbing someone.
Making something with your hands — touching it, shaping it, spending time with it — that’s different. You can see what you’ve done. You can show it to people. You can let it exist beyond you.
It’s not about playing God. It’s about using the God that’s already inside you.
RM: Are there rituals that help you stay grounded or disciplined in your practice?
CN: I’m honestly very good at self-sabotage.
This year has been difficult. There have been moments where discipline felt impossible.
One thing that really helps me is spending time with my animals — my dogs and my cat. I’ll spend two or three hours just sitting with them, watching them exist. They’re present. They’re not rushing. They’re not overthinking.
That stillness brings me back into my body. It motivates me without forcing me.
RM: The male figure appears often in your work. Where does that come from?
CN: It comes from sleep paralysis.
I used to experience it a lot, and during those episodes I’d see this male entity. It kept appearing in my dreams, over and over again. Eventually, I decided to paint it.
Once I brought it out of my subconscious and into the physical world, the sleep paralysis stopped. In a way, it was trauma work.
It also challenges how we look at bodies. People are very comfortable seeing painted or naked female figures. But when you put a naked male body in front of them, it makes them uncomfortable. I want people to sit with that discomfort.
RM: How do you feel about the current art industry?
CN: The industry isn’t pure right now.
Talent alone isn’t enough. It’s about access, proximity, who you know, where you show up. That can be discouraging.
But I try to stay in my own pocket. My mentor once told me that the art industry is like a dome — every year it shifts. Different doors open for different kinds of work.
I believe my time is coming. I don’t want to force it. I just want to be ready.
——
Spending time in Chevy Noir’s studio makes one thing clear: his practice is not about control, mastery, or clean resolutions. It is about listening — to the material, to the body, to fatigue, to instinct. Knowing when to intervene, and knowing when to stop.
Throughout the conversation, Chevy returns to the idea of fluidity — not just in water and pigment, but in thought, process, and identity. Perfection exists only to be disturbed. Meaning reveals itself after the fact. A work is finished not when it is flawless, but when it has said everything it needs to say — and the artist is tired enough to let it go.
In an era obsessed with speed, polish, and clarity, Chevy’s work insists on something else: patience, imperfection, and trust in process. Trust that the work knows more than the maker at times. Trust that destruction can be a form of creation.
What remains is not a final answer, but a trace — of movement, of struggle, of a moment that once existed in water, pigment, and time.