Abbey Road in 336 audio cassettes: How I created this Pop Art portrait of the Beatles

When the Medium Becomes Master

For Abbey Road, I chose nothing. The cassette spoke. Four panels of 160x160 cm. 336 cases aligned like an equation. In my work, the object is never mere decoration—it's the standard, the ruler, the skeleton of the piece.

Sunday Archaeology

These cassettes didn't come from an Amazon box. I hunted them down, Sunday after Sunday, in the dust of flea markets and the mothball scent of attics. Each time I pick one up, I read the handwritten inscriptions, the faded titles. And there it is, that little pang: do I have the right to erase this?

Sometimes I feel like I'm committing a gentle murder—silencing a voice recorded forty years ago. So I sort. The gems, I spare. The rest? I sacrifice them so they can be reborn as immortal icons. Forgotten variety becomes eternal Beatles.

Hell Hides in the Gears

Behind the Pop Art gleam, there are hours of meticulous surgery. Peeling off 336 labels that refuse to die, clinging as if defending their last trace of existence. Emptying each cassette of its magnetic entrails, by hand, reel after reel. A hypnotic ritual, almost monastic. Without it, the work would collapse under its own weight.

Zero Forgiveness

Working with cassettes is composing on a merciless checkerboard. One millimeter off and everything tips. A misplaced gear on a pupil, and the entire gaze goes dead. I've had to dismantle a complete panel for that kind of detail. On Abbey Road, each cassette is a note. If a single one rings false, the entire symphony derails.