In a society wired for purpose, profit, and posts, there’s something radically pure about doing something just because. Not for clout. Not for money. Not even for meaning. Just because it’s fun. That’s the philosophy that drives Jelmer Konjo, a graffiti writer and DIY experimentalist who’s made a career—or more accurately, a life—out of creating in ways that flip off the system while inviting people to touch, explore, and play with the work.
“I come from skateboarding and graffiti,” Konjo says, leaning back like someone who’s had this conversation before—eager to talk about something he’s clearly been macerating in. “Two of the most pointless things you can do growing up. Nobody’s going pro, and even if you do, it doesn’t last long. If I play soccer against another team and I score, there’s a direct result of that. People understand scoring points.”
In this essence, since no real points are scored, the artistic discipline that Jelmer practices is — by definition — pointless
Even traditional art, which aims to be hung, sold, and snapped for Instagram clout, graffiti and skating are rebellions against the more metaphorical scoreboard. “If I land a trick alone in a skate park, nobody sees it. If I fall 20,000 times, I still get back up. That’s the thing—no one claps, no one cares. You just do it.”
That idea of futility—of embracing the transient—is at the core of Konjo’s ethos. Take his graffiti work, for example. He’ll spend three days meticulously planning and painting a train in the Netherlands, dodging security and blue shirts, only to have it scrubbed clean before anyone ever sees it. “They go straight into the buff,” he shrugs. “It’s gone. Like it never existed. So you’re only doing it for yourself—and maybe a handful of people who know.”
This isn’t failure. It’s freedom. And that paradox bleeds into how Konjo approaches visual art, too. His installations glitch the gallery experience: touchable, rearrangeable, often built with materials that barely qualify as tools of the trade. Brushes? Try foam mattresses. Polishing machines. A rebuilt pressure washer hacked to spray paint.
“I made it so the paint could go through. I couldn’t get an airless sprayer —those guys want to charge, like, 10,000 for a 200-dollar machine. So I just made my own.”
This is Mad Max meets modern art. DIY textures and seemingly child-like aesthetics mixed with true conceptual weight. His works don’t sit still. The whole installation is a living sculpture. Two days later, the pieces are rearranged, mutated. Nothing is fixed. Nothing is precious. Its very existence is a reflection of the ephemeral nature of graffiti in the streets.
He rails against the passivity of modern art consumption, where Instagram posts become spoilers and museum visits turn into déjà vu. “You’ve already seen 90% of the show before you even get there,” he says. “The lighting might’ve been better in someone’s post. The contrast is up. It just doesn’t hit.”
So he designs for interaction. For memory. For surprise. “You remember things better when you touch them. There’s dopamine. That’s what makes it stick. That’s closer to skating. That’s real.”
The same logic carries into his critiques of public space. Playground equipment, which inspired a lot of Konjo’s artwork, is engineered for safety—not joy. “It’s designed by old men who are just thinking about risk. But kids? Kids want risk. That’s where the fun is. You give them a house with a slide—they all climb on the roof. Not the slide. The roof.”
For Jelmer Konjo, art is play. Art is risk. Art is doing it even if no one ever sees it.
Or maybe, especially if no one ever sees it.
Because in a world desperate for validation, there’s a kind of quiet punk magic in doing something just because it feels good—and knowing that even if it gets wiped clean, you were there.
