Franky Turbo
Straight Lines, No Filter
No posing. No gloss. No showboating.
Franky Turbo throws ink the way others throw riffs: sharp, raw, instinctive.
Chronique du bitume ordinaire scrapes like an old bassline through a blown-out amp, always in the red.
It reeks of rust, sleepless nights, and sticky sidewalks.
In this conversation, he speaks like he draws: with a machete. No polish, no retreat.
He talks street, silence, anger, and what it costs to stay upright.
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You could’ve gone with watercolor, but you chose markers. Got something against softness?
Watercolor’s for people who want things to float, drift, fade without a trace.
Markers, you lay it down, it’s there. Immediate.
No CTRL+Z, no plan B.
That no-return feeling, I like it. I look for it.
So yeah, you like the risk?
Yeah. That’s where the life is.
If you can undo, it’s too safe.
Where does the nickname “Turbo” come from?
Man, that goes way back.
I can’t even remember exactly.
I’d messed with the exhaust on my moped, souped up the engine.
It made more noise than speed.
Some folks say it’s because of my markers. You know, those neon Italian ones?
Giotto Turbo Max?
That’s them. Been using them since I was a kid.
Cheap, unbreakable.
Always had one in my pocket.
Chronique du Bitume Ordinaire
Franky Turbo draws the way he speaks: short, raw, on the edge of breaking.
In Chronicle of Ordinary Asphalt, each line is a sidewalk scream—no syntax, no apology.
Your work’s not illustration. So what is it?
It’s not sketchbook stuff. Not concept art.
It’s more like accident reports. Sirens.
Syntax-free screams.
I spill, I unload. Maybe I’m calling things out a bit.
But no slogans. Just nerves.
Is it political?
Not in the textbook sense.
But yeah, reality leaks through.
What I make comes from where things grind.
“Chronicle of the Ordinary Pavement.” What’s behind that title?
I never woke up thinking, hey, let’s do a series on modern life.
I just scratched what was right in front of me.
Colombelles. Flat streets, low skies, dead bars, the ghost of the factory even after shutdown.
Sidewalks, shouting, scraps.
It’s what comes out when you’ve got nothing left to say, but still can’t shut up.
What did you grow up seeing?
The street trained my eyes.
Bikes, peeling walls, bar counters soaked in vinegar.
At home there wasn’t Kandinsky on the wall, just damp.
Maybe a Motörhead poster to make it look fancy.
Your mentors?
Local guys.
Bébert the grocer. Vladimir the ex-boxer, telling stories like they were gospel.
People who teach you art without pencils.
Two cigarettes and a bingo ticket at a time.
Chronique du Bitume Ordinaire
Your drawings are dark, but there are flashes. What’s beauty to you?
It’s that thing that tightens your throat but won’t let go.
Like a scar catching the light just right.
I don’t make pretty. I go for the real. Even when it hurts.
Do you chase beauty, or let it show up?
I don’t force it.
If it’s there, it’s meant to be.
If not, too bad.
Violence. Do you carry it, or try to purge it? Is it in you, or do you draw it to keep it away?
It’s in me.
It’s got a key.
It camps out in the back of my head, cigarette in its mouth, commenting on everything I do.
So I give it a page. A face to wreck.
While it draws, it leaves me alone.
That’s the deal. I let it out, and it doesn’t burn the whole place down.
But I’m not naive. It never really leaves.
It just squats there, silent.
And honestly, without it, I wouldn’t have much to say.
Without drawing, where would you be?
Probably some straight guy. Clocking in, saying thanks to the machine. Weekends at IKEA to furnish the void. Loafers on, life insurance under one arm, eyes already six feet under. Reality TV extra. No camera, no script, no audience.
I’d rather die standing. Dirty hands, scrambled thoughts. Than rot on a couch waiting for retirement like it’s a coffin.
Drawing isn’t a hobby. It’s a lifeline. A way to scream that I’m still here, even if there’s no one watching.
Got something to say to people who’ll catch your work in the eye?
Don’t overthink it, man.
This isn’t interior design.
Just raw slices of lived life, thrown down fast. No polish. No pitch.
I’m not trying to end up next to the Mona Lisa.
But if it hits you.
If one of my drawings makes you flinch or stop for a second.
That’s already something.
Chronique du Bitume Ordinaire
