HazzA is, by his creator’s own admission, “a bit of a c*nt.” He is also the most candid part of Harry Lynch, a translator for the artist’s subconscious who “steps in” when Lynch is anxious, sharp, or on edge, and who, given the chance, “would just be yapping my ear off.”
Born, or rather, recognised, in 2020, HazzA has become the recurring protagonist of Lynch’s densely populated canvases, a world of guns, cars, roads, bookshelves, and the occasional Jesus rendered as a DJ, a dinosaur, or an aeroplane. This spring, that world arrived in Paris as “A View Into the World of HazzA,” a solo exhibition staged inside a grand Haussmannian apartment in collaboration with ELLERY founder and creative director Kym Ellery — a deliberate friction between historical weight and very contemporary anxiety.
Whitewall spoke with Lynch about automatic drawing, walking away from art school, his residency in the UAE, the move from Bruges to Brussels to Paris, and whether HazzA will, as the writer Sophie Boursat has predicted, one day disappear.
HazzA: He Was Always There
Harry Lynch, “Dystopia,” Date Unknown, acrylic and charcoal on canvas. Courtesy of the artist.
Harry Lynch, “Rush Hour,” Date Unknown, acrylic and charcoal on canvas. Courtesy of the artist.
WHITEWALL: HazzA was born in 2020, at a very specific moment — you were a young art student navigating a world increasingly mediated by screens. Looking back, was his arrival inevitable, or did he surprise you?
HARRY LYNCH: HazzA didn’t just appear in 2020, that’s just when I recognised him. He’s something that’s been there for a long time, sitting in my subconscious. Growing up, I always had that side in me. I didn’t separate it or really question it, it was just part of how I dealt with things then. At the same time, growing up in a world shaped by screens and constant exposure definitely played a role in how that side developed and how I understood it. It’s part of why HazzA became what he is, but not the only reason. In 2020, I gave him a name and started to see him for what he was. It wasn’t something new, just something I finally started understanding.
“HazzA didn’t just appear in 2020 — that’s just when I recognised him. He’s something that’s been there for a long time, sitting in my subconscious,”
-Harry Lynch.
WW: You describe HazzA as a dialogue between your conscious and subconscious selves. How do you know when he’s speaking, and when you are?
HL: Well, HazzA is a bit of a c*nt. That’s usually how I recognise it. When I’m on edge, anxious, or reacting sharply, I become aware that he’s stepping in. He’s not my whole subconscious, more like a translator within it, pushing certain feelings forward in a way I can’t ignore. Painting becomes a collaboration between the two. Sometimes my conscious self leads, and sometimes HazzA brings something up from deeper in my subconscious that I don’t fully understand yet. It usually only becomes clear afterwards what was actually driving it. That idea of a back-and-forth also exists more literally in my sculpture titled “Duty Calls.” It sets up a direct phone line between me and HazzA, which I’m glad doesn’t actually work, because he would just be yapping my ear off.
WW: Your work carries clear lineages — Bosch, Goya, the grotesque tradition. How do you hold those historical references alongside the very contemporary grammar of Gen Z anxiety?
HL: In art school, I tried not to look too deeply into contemporary and modern art because I didn’t want to move through imitation. I wasn’t interested in borrowing visual solutions; I wanted to build something on my own terms. That’s also why I quit art school — I didn’t want to have teachers breastfeeding me their ideas. I wanted to decide for myself what I absorbed, and when. I only looked at a small number of historical artists, and never closely enough for it to become direct reference. Everything I make comes more from lived pressure, overstimulation, and noise. That’s where the contemporary tone comes from. It’s not constructed as commentary, it just absorbs the conditions around me. Only later did I realise the questions behind it weren’t new. In my painting “Dystopia,” for example, I recognised something close to Hieronymus Bosch — not as influence but as a shared logic of density, where everything is happening at once and structure appears inside chaos. In other pieces, there’s a quieter psychological tension that can echo Francisco Goya, but it arrives more indirectly, unintentionally. It sits somewhere between what I’m experiencing now and ideas I seem to stumble onto, the same questions that thinkers, philosophers, and artists have encountered before me, without me consciously referencing them.
What the Hand Knows
Harry Lynch, “The Abyss of Tartarus, The Underworld,” Date Unknown. Courtesy of the artist.
Harry Lynch, “Space Invader,” Date Unknown, acrylic on canvas. Courtesy of the artist.
WW: The Paris exhibition was titled A View Into the World of HazzA, yet the setting — a grand Haussmannian apartment — created a striking tension with the work. Was that friction intentional?
HL: The friction was intentional, but not something I forced. Most of the pieces exhibited were created in Bruges. My first art studio there was located on one of the main historic squares, right next to the Basilica where they keep the blood of Jesus Christ. Now I think of it, that is probably why I randomly paint and draw Jesus. Jesus as a DJ. Jesus as a dinosaur. Jesus as an aeroplane, and so on, to pass time. The second and last studio I had in Bruges was in an old, abandoned mansion that once belonged to an important historical Flemish politician, so the contrast between different styles and eras was already present whilst I was painting. I think my work was always meant to sit within a space that carries historical weight, so that it becomes a conversation about the different periods. When my work was shown in the Haussmannian apartment in Paris, that tension just became more obvious and visible. It wasn’t designed specifically for that space, but once the pieces were placed there they started to interact with the space in a way I hadn’t fully anticipated.
“I didn’t want to have teachers breastfeeding me their ideas. I wanted to decide for myself what I absorbed, and when,”
-Harry Lynch.
WW: Automatic drawing sits at the core of your process. What does the hand know before the mind catches up?
HL: I started exploring automatic drawing seriously in 2020 to bypass overthinking and let things surface before they become too constructed. It’s often where a painting begins, it’s a way to push past hesitation. That process really opened up in the painting “The Abyss of Tartarus, the Underworld,” where I did automatic drawing/painting on a larger scale for the first time. I would talk, move around, distract myself — anything that prevented me from controlling the hand too early. The world around me began to seep into my gestures, shaping the marks as they surfaced. In a way, that painting became a clear visualisation of how I was thinking. Over time, I’ve trained my hand to respond while still keeping a certain independence. My role is minimal, mostly stepping in when something starts to repeat so the drawing doesn’t become too controlled.
WW: You’ve moved from Bruges to Brussels to Paris, each city with its own particular weight and light. How has Paris changed how you paint?
HL: Paris changes things in a way that’s hard to isolate. It doesn’t just affect the work, but the conditions around it — the pace, the people, the constant overlap of worlds. The first months were intense. New people, winter, displacement. That state of mind shows up in the painting entitled “Space Invader,” where I was still observing rather than fully inhabiting the city. Before that, Brussels was my entry into a creative environment — I was surrounded by photographers, artists, and young creatives. Bruges was the opposite; quiet and focused, with my own studio and no distractions. That is where I developed a more consistent visual language. Now in Paris, it feels open in a different way. I’m around people from all backgrounds, and that mix is starting to shift what I choose to paint. It feels less like observing the city and more like being absorbed into something constantly in motion.
Interior Worlds in an Open Landscape
Harry Lynch, “Cultural Appropriation,” 2024, acrylic and charcoal on canvas. Courtesy of the artist.
Harry Lynch, “Frowns and Blooms,” Date Unknown, acrylic and charcoal on canvas. Courtesy of the artist.
WW: Your recurring symbols — guns, cars, roads, bookshelves — feel simultaneously personal and universal. How does a private visual language become legible to a stranger?
HL: Guns, cars, roads, bookshelves — they’re part of everyday life, whether you experience them directly or through film and media. They are things people are familiar with. I’m interested in how those images sit in the back of your mind. You don’t really think about them, but they’re there, and they come back without you realising it. Because of that, people recognise them straight away. I don’t need to explain them. The viewer projects their own experiences onto them, so it becomes personal for them as well.
WW: The UAE residency at Thaer Select produced some of your most distinct recent work. What does it mean to create a world as interior as HazzA’s in a landscape as open and elemental as the desert?
HL: This was the first time I made work in a different country and cultural context. The UAE felt like a true melting pot, with loads of different realities and cultures existing side by side. It was eye-opening to see so many worlds within one place. That environment shaped how I worked, while I was still filtering everything through my own internal world. That friction became central in “Fragmented Reality,” where preconceived ideas about the UAE began to collide with lived experience. In “Cultural Appropriation,” desert landscapes, palm trees, and other elements came from assumptions I had before arriving. Others only formed once I was there, like “Rush Hour” and “Frowns and Blooms.”
“That idea of disappearance doesn’t apply to something internal,”
-Harry Lynch.
WW: Sophie Boursat writes that HazzA will one day disappear — that his story will close with Gen Z’s youth. Do you believe that? And what comes after?
HL: I used to think of HazzA as the artist, while Harry was more of an observer. Over time, especially through this solo show, that separation started to dissolve. It became clear that HazzA isn’t something distinct, but an extension of myself. HazzA still exists, but not as something fixed. Even if he were to fade publicly, nothing really ends. That idea of disappearance doesn’t apply to something internal. He still plays a role in my practice. I will always need that crazy f*cker, but there’s also another side starting to emerge that doesn’t always need to represent him directly. It feels less tied to youth and more to development. As things become more grounded, HazzA evolves with them. He remains connected to an earlier version of myself, which makes it hard to imagine him ever completely leaving.
Creative Worlds
Harry Lynch, “Fragmented Reality,” Date Unknown, acrylic and charcoal on canvas. Courtesy of the artist.
WW: There’s a deep vein of humor running through the work, even in its darkest moments. Is comedy a survival mechanism, or something more structural to how you see the world?
HL: Humor is usually the first thing that comes out, before I’ve had time to think. It makes it easier to talk about things people don’t usually say out loud. Most people have their guard up when it comes to that kind of stuff, and humor helps break it up a bit. It gives you a way in. You can point at something uncomfortable without it feeling too heavy straight away, so people stay with it instead of avoiding it or stopping their train of thought. People recognise it as well. Even if they don’t say it, they’ve felt similar things, so it connects without having to spell everything out.
WW: You work across painting, sculpture, film, and fashion. Do these mediums answer different questions, or are they all trying to solve the same problem?
HL: My base of thinking is as a painter. Even when I move into different mediums, I’m still thinking from that perspective. It’s not that the mediums answer different questions. It’s the same question, just expressed in different ways. Each one expands my visual language and opens up another way of thinking. I’m still too young to fully understand what “the” question is. But then again, it’s not really something to solve. It’s the search for it that gives it weight in the first place. What I’m really trying to work through is everything that has shaped me without me being fully aware of it — the influences, assumptions, and patterns I’ve picked up over time. The work becomes a kind of journal, a way of moving through different periods and trying to make sense of them, knowing I’ll probably never fully figure it out.
“It’s not that the mediums answer different questions. It’s the same question, just expressed in different ways.”
-Harry Lynch.
WW: You are collaborating on this Paris exhibition with Kym Ellery — a meeting of two very distinct creative worlds. How did that relationship come about, and what does a collaboration between you look like in practice?
HL: Kym and I met in Abu Dhabi at an event in the Louvre. We connected over our Australian heritage, admired each other’s work, stayed in touch, then reconnected in Paris some months later. That was when the idea for the exhibition started to take shape. I’ve always wanted to expand into other mediums of expression, and working with her gave me a different view on what I’m doing. She has experience in different creative fields, so there’s a lot to learn from that, especially seeing how she navigates those worlds. There’s a kind of mentorship in it, where I learn from her experience, while she also engages with how I think and work. In practice, it’s very direct. We exchange ideas, react to each other’s input, and build from there. We are planning the next collaborations as we speak.
