The Interview | Agoria

Moving fluidly between electronic music, creative coding, and scientific experimentation, Agoria’s work establishes unexpected links between natural and digital systems. In recent years, he has expanded his practice into what he terms “biological generative art,” integrating data from the natural world into generative systems that conjure cosmic depictions of microscopic phenomena. Projects such as {Centriole}, which explores the inner workings of brain cells, and Phytocene, which visualizes cellular plant growth, reflect his drive to bring the living world on-chain, while Make Music Rare Again resists the hyperaccessibility of streaming culture by turning each act of listening into a unique experience. 

Last year, Agoria’s experimental and participatory ethos crystallized in “Le Code d’Orsay,” where he invited audiences to animate digital art with their breath, turning an industrial sculpture into a living interface. In this conversation with Phoebe Forster, he draws parallels between the early electronic music scene and Web3, and shares what life is like in an increasingly hybrid art world.

‍Phoebe Forster: From mixing at underground clubs as a 17-year-old to launching your own label, Sapiens, you’ve been at the core of France’s electronic music scene for decades. What were your early influences?

‍Agoria: My parents had a huge influence on me. My dad was a big music fan and my mum was an opera singer who taught me music when I was a kid. But, of course, when my teenage years came around, I rejected everything I had been taught, becoming a DJ and discovering the rave scene. 

In the UK, in order to clamp down on raves there was actually a law that made it illegal for more than two people to dance to electronic music. France had its own version which meant that every event we organized was a struggle. The police would stop me, ask what I was doing, and assume I was a drug dealer.

Nowadays electronic music is everywhere, which feels surreal. When I was younger, I was almost ashamed to call myself a DJ. People would ask: “but do you actually make music?” When I responded that I produced electronic music, they looked at me like I was a disappointment. But if you tell someone today that you were part of that early scene, they see you as a pioneer. In just 30 years it’s completely shifted. It’s a crazy story.

I was involved with the start of Nuits Sonores, a major electronic music festival in Lyon. It was a huge step for the scene and these days it attracts 120,000 people a year. I see the same passion, sense of possibility, and utopian spirit in Web3 and digital art today. 

I used to say that raves were the last truly free spaces on earth — places without politics. Web3 carries a similar sense of freedom and authenticity. That’s why I love it.

PF: What brought you to contemporary art? 

‍A: Music led me to work with contemporary artists. Philippe Parreno invited me to collaborate on several exhibitions, mainly with my music. We worked on a sound installation for Tate Modern’s Turbine Hall and at New York’s Park Avenue Armory. I also created a soundtrack for his film Invisible Boy at the HangarBicocca in Milan.

I love Philippe’s approach of blending different disciplines to create a completely new kind of narrative. Every project was chaos and nobody knew what they were supposed to do or what the result would be. Yet, every time it worked and something magical happened. 

Following these experiences, I started engaging with philosophers, neuroscientists, physicists, and biologists: all very different people who are now close friends and collaborators. That cross-pollination of ideas has been a big inspiration, and Philippe opened up that world. 

‍PF: You often describe your work as “biological generative art” or “BioGenArt.” How does data from the living world shape a work like {Centriole}? 

‍A: That work wouldn’t have been possible without Alice Meunier, a biologist at the French National Centre for Scientific Research. I once asked her how we actually make decisions and whether we are really ever in control. She showed me what happens in the brain when a decision is made, explaining that the connection between proteins in the brain is the force behind decision-making. She developed a technique to film the fluid moving the cilia, which has the visual appearance of a galaxy.

We have much more to learn from the living world than from any technology — especially today when people like Elon Musk think they can predict the future. 

At one point, Musk said that an AI talking to a human will soon be like a human talking to a tree. But I think we have much more to learn from a tree than any AI. 

Nature has always been my greatest inspiration. I truly believe that it’s still, and will remain for a long time, the most intelligent system, far beyond anything that we can create.

‍PF: Phytocene (2021) is another of your creative collaborations. Developed with a biophysicist, it seems to be as much about scientific inquiry as visual art. Can you speak about the symbiosis of inquiry and aesthetics in your work?

‍A: Phytocene emerged from the decision to study a hemp field with two friends of mine: Nicolas Desprat, an incredible biophysicist, and Nicolas Becker, an amazing composer who won an Oscar for the movie Sound of Metal (2019). We started thinking about what we could do together that would be interesting and a bit different. 

Our first idea was HempFM, a live audio stream from a field that you could tune into 24/7 to hear what was happening underground, captured through probes. It was beautiful. It ran for a number of years and people used it for meditation, yoga, and pilates. But then we sought to go deeper and document the growth of the hemp, creating a collection about what happens before anything breaks through the soil. We set up thermometers and probes but, for two months, we didn’t see anything and Nicolas didn’t understand why. Eventually, he decided to rebuild his own microscope.

One day, he called me and said: “You need to see this!” We witnessed the birth of [the hemp] and made a beautiful seven-minute film that showed the microscopic growth of cells. From that, we extracted a few stills, which became At the roots of plants (2022).

‍PF: What do you enjoy most about collaborating with scientists?

‍A: At the beginning, the scientists I work with always say: “we need a protocol. Everything must be precise and structured.” But after a week they always say, “let’s do it your way instead!” That’s the beauty of artistic freedom. 

I understand how long it takes to publish a work of scientific research. But when scientists work with artistic freedom, they’re not thinking about where it will be published or whether it follows traditional process. It’s real scientific work but, first and foremost, it’s art — made with the heart. 

In ten years time, these projects could be part of a scientific paper because the research is real. While intuition cannot be a scientific publication, because we authenticate the work on-chain and there’s a record of it, one day someone might look back and realise it was a strong analysis. That’s why it’s amazing, especially for science, to bring the living world on-chain. It allows us to create something that stands as a real proof of work.

‍PF: Can we expect more scientific collaborations in the future?

‍A: Yes, I’ll never stop, because I think that scientists are real artists. Most of the time, artists and musicians start with an idea but the result is far from what they envisioned. The same applies to scientists — they search for something very precise, but in the process, they discover something unexpected, something incredible. Even though scientists work within strict boundaries, they’re incredibly open-minded, so it’s always a pleasure working with them. 

All my work is about bridging the living world with the digital. People forget that DNA is a code; there’s no reason to see these worlds as separate.

‍PF: The centerpiece of your exhibition at the Musée d’Orsay was a collaboration with the artist Johan Lescure. Titled {Sigma Lumina} (2024), the work comprised a steel sculpture that cast a scannable QR code shadow, inviting visitors to activate digital art with their breath. This felt like a powerful introduction to the way biological and computational systems come together in your work. What was your thought process behind the project? 

‍A: It didn’t come easily. Firstly, there was pressure because the Musée d’Orsay is one of the most visited museums in the world. Johan and I felt a responsibility to the entire digital art and Web3 ecosystem. Secondly, we made a radical decision not to use screens or sound, which was obviously a challenge for me. 

We came up with the idea of destructuring a QR code that the sculpture would project onto the floor via its shadow. Whether it appeared or not depended on how it aligned with the light in the room. I loved those first few days when people didn’t realise the sculpture was casting a code. 

The next step was deciding where the QR code would take you. What if you had to use your breath to generate the art? We wanted to create a sense of life and what’s more organic than your own breath? I thought this was beautiful. Technically, it worked by using the phone’s microphone to detect the noise you make when you breathe. What made it difficult to execute was the fact that every phone is different and some microphones interpreted the sound as wind, therefore automatically cut it out. But we got most phones to work and, when activated, people saw masterpieces from the museum’s collection by Monet, Renoir, and other incredible Impressionist painters merged with the spirit of my Compend-AI (2022) model. 

‍PF: For the second piece in the exhibition, you animated Gustave Courbet’s painting of The Painter’s Studio (1854-55) according to data from a growing yeast culture. What prompted you to join the two together?  

‍A: Our perception of artworks is always changing, so if you looked at a painting by Courbet 50 or even 150 years ago, you would have a different interpretation. Every generation interprets art differently. But, of course, the painting also changes over time and requires conservation and restoration. In a sense, it’s not even the same painting anymore. I wanted to express this idea of shifting perception not only in cultural or political terms but also in terms of physical changes? 

What if a living organism, like yeast, took control of the painting?

Together with four brilliant scientists: Jean-Baptiste Boulé, Nicolas Desprat, Julien Mozziconacci, and Manuel Théry, we decided to cultivate a population of yeast in a bioreactor, linking its growth and decay to key events from Courbet’s life. For example, to align with the reign of Napoleon III — when so many people were killed — we cut the oxygen and sugar supply, removing many of the elements that keep yeast alive. Then we captured the data from the bioreactor and used it to animate the pixels of Courbet’s painting. In a way, we made a movie of Courbet’s life inside his own painting, creating a two-minute sequence that injects historical events into the artwork itself.

I chose this specific painting by Courbet because of its history. When Courbet submitted it to the 1855 Universal Exhibition in Paris, it was rejected. Now, of course, it is considered one of the museum’s major works. But back then, they said it wasn’t art. Courbet opened his own exhibition outside just so that people could see his work. To me, this made for an incredible parallel with digital art. 

Things are better now, but only three years ago most museums and galleries were saying: “This is not art. This will disappear.” Every time I hear such resistance, I know something big is happening. If people fight something that much, it’s because they don’t understand it, can’t control it, but eventually will embrace it. It was the same for electronic music.

‍PF: How has your creative philosophy evolved as you have engaged in so many different fields?

‍A: I’ve always been militant about fighting for the things I believe in. For example, when the organizers of this year’s AI Action Summit contacted me about showcasing my work I suggested the {Sigma Lumina} sculpture, but they said they only wanted digital works. 

Then, only five days before the summit, President Macron called me and said “I want your sculpture on stage with me.” And we made it happen. 

Although my albums are all quite different musically, I think that people can feel the same DNA running through them. My new album includes Nile Rodgers but it also has techno. My last album was very dark and very techno. Each work takes on a different shape depending on my inspiration and mood, but I think the essence is the same. Sometimes I worry I’m doing too many things, that my message is unclear. 

People always tell you to focus on one thing for marketing reasons. But my definition of an artist is someone who touches different disciplines, who follows their curiosity rather than staying in one lane. For me, it’s essential to be able to spend an evening with Alice Meunier discussing our research, then talking to Nicolas Desprat. It’s more inspiring than just talking about DJing and going to afterparties every night. It’s not that I don’t love it, but my real inspiration comes from these different encounters, from constantly exploring new ideas. That’s what truly drives me.

‍PF: With ten albums and a diverse collection of music videos, storytelling is clearly a passion. How does narrative play a role in your work and how do you adapt to individual collectors?

‍A: The music industry has lost its sense of narrative. Nowadays, it’s all about producing content for an algorithm in order to build a presence on social media. Some artists work with producers and big marketing agencies to release a song every two weeks. But music shouldn’t be like that and I don’t want to be part of that game.

I know what I need to do as an artist. That is why I like working on projects with deeper narratives and exploring different fields and processes. The Musée d’Orsay exhibition required a year and a half of preparation but I needed that process to bring more substance into my work. Music exists to give you emotional moments but it also needs substance. Nowadays, music is driven by algorithms that at the end of the day will not give you any emotion. 

For me, music should be rare. It isn’t a question of nostalgia, but when you had to buy an album on vinyl you might have had to wait for six months. Now you can have it in seconds. That changes everything — your love for a song, the way you connect to it — the feeling is completely different. 

That’s why I developed my project, Make Music Rare Again, which generates variations of my song {Getaway}. Every time you press play, you hear a different version that is yours alone. You can stream as much as you want, and mint the variations you love. It was interesting to see which versions people preferred: those with lyrics or without and those with a long or short intro. Everyone had their own preference. My original version of the song is out there, but I did recognise versions I thought were better than mine. And I loved that — music felt surprising and rare again.