Video Games
In conversation with Sarah Daoui
Video Games
In conversation with Sarah Daoui
Sara Sadik’s artistic universe is a digital oasis where North African men hold center stage and take full autonomy over their own fate. The viewer is experientially transported through each emotional state of the character’s journey, often via Sadik’s distinctive format of video games and animated films. Feelings like isolation and melancholy are brought to the forefront of the experience, creating a parallel universe in which the character frees himself of any societal pressure to hide internal suffering and consequently finds inner peace and tranquility.
Born in 1994 in Bordeaux, France to Moroccan and Algerian parents, Sara grew up with an obsession for American television classics: Disney Channel, Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie’s The Simple Life, and even Jerry Springer. Yet, within this oeuvre, Sara felt a conscious lack of popular media and culture that resembled her and the world around her. Her solution was to create a space of her own, where the typically ephemeral — whether that be emotional states, digital media, or relief from institutional racism — could become concrete.
Your work takes on digital forms that are so often overlooked in our contemporary culture and plays with the gesture of televising marginalized groups that aren’t otherwise often represented. How did you arrive at this methodology?
I’m a child of television. I come from a working-class family in Bordeaux, France, but when I was growing up we had all the American channels — Disney, MTV — and I spent all my time watching them. In all those years, I didn’t see myself reflected in any of the television I consumed. The first time I thought, “Oh, maybe I want to make art, maybe I want to be an artist,” was when I was already in my second year of art school and I realized that I wanted to use television and video game formats to make something that reflected my experience. So, I started re-creating infomercials, reality TV clips, and news clips that were talking about subjects close to me. These forms of video were what I was familiar with — I didn’t know much about cinema.
Is there a standout project from that time for you?
The first time I went to Marseille, I did a workshop with a group of teenagers in a social center, and together we wrote and made a short film about their neighborhood. The concept was that aliens were coming to the neighborhood, and we wanted to imagine what would happen, and how they would react to it. The kids used a TV broadcast format, with one of the teenagers as the host. At the time, Fox News in the U.S. was using the term “no-go zone” to describe neighborhoods like that one in France, claiming that they were super dangerous and describing the people that lived there like animals. So it was important for me to reuse this type of media but with the voices of local teenagers telling their own stories.
Did you hope for any particular social impact to come out of this film?
I hope that sometimes my work on projects like this one can change people’s minds, but I’m also very aware that I’m just a little artist doing my own thing — I’m not here to save the world and I know that. It was more about giving a voice to these teenagers.
I’m also very aware that I’m just a little artist doing my own thing — I’m not here to save the world and I know that.
I’m also very aware that I’m just a little artist doing my own thing — I’m not here to save the world and I know that.
I hear you, but I can also confirm the power of your work, especially as it depicts Algerian youth in an honest, contemporary way — one that is humanizing and universal. So much of the work covering Algerian communities relates back to the 1960s and French colonialism. You’re one of the only artists actually making work about people who look like me or like the men of my generation, what we care about, and what we feel.
I’m so happy to hear you say that. As someone of Moroccan-Algerian heritage, I’m continually frustrated by the fact that, in contemporary French art and cinema, we’re either non-existent or we’re given this melodramatic feeling. Pale colors, sepia — this sad aesthetic isn’t me, it’s not my husband, it’s not my brother. It became important to me to create work that actually represents me and other people in my community. We’re not all the same, of course, but we do share similar life and cultural experiences. When I decided I wanted to make art, it was with this in mind.
The digital medium you use adds another layer of accessibility for the community we’re talking about. So often, I think, people who look like us don’t feel like they have access to typical art spaces. That’s what I love about video and digital art: anyone is invited to the experience.
Making my art accessible is essential. Video is something everyone can connect to — especially now, when social media has made video into a medium everyone can use. And when I reference video games or TV, it’s something that belongs to everyone. It’s not part of an elitist culture. So that’s one side of it. The other reason why using video is so important to me is that, when I was in school, I was one of the very few students from a working-class background and the Maghrebi diaspora. I wasn’t supposed to be there, to be honest — the idea of being in a fine art school wasn’t even a possible reality that I had considered before. And then, when I was there, I felt that they didn’t want me to speak about my identity, my culture, my religion, my French rap or TV references, or really anything that constitutes who I am. It made me want to just do my own thing without interacting with my teachers. I decided that I was going to prove that my culture isn’t a low culture thing — that it can have a place in this French elitist domain even.
Making my art accessible is essential. Video is something everyone can connect to — especially now, when social media has made video into a medium everyone can use. And when I reference video games or TV, it’s something that belongs to everyone. It’s not part of an elitist culture.
Making my art accessible is essential. Video is something everyone can connect to — especially now, when social media has made video into a medium everyone can use. And when I reference video games or TV, it’s something that belongs to everyone. It’s not part of an elitist culture.
You mentioned that you hadn’t even considered art school as a possibility. I’m curious how you got there.
Well, I lived in a working-class neighborhood, but as a child and teenager growing up watching rich people on TV, like Paris Hilton in The Simple Life, I was thinking: “This life I have isn’t for me, I want to be rich, I want to be famous.” It’s pretty sad when I think about it now. But to achieve that, I felt I needed to leave my neighborhood and not go to my local high school. I found a high school in the city center of Bordeaux that was offering an applied arts course. I wasn’t even interested in the arts, but it was my only way forward. I told them, “You’re the only school offering this, so you have to take me.” I did pretty well in middle school at the time, so my education advisor pushed for my application.
Did you enjoy your time there? Were you good at the courses?
I was bad at it. Like really, really bad. After graduating, I applied to a lot of schools for design — all of our courses were very design-specific — and I was rejected from all of them because of how bad I was. But after a year, I tried applying again at the Fine Arts School and finally was accepted.
Were you able to find any references or artists who helped guide your work, or who made you feel less oppressed and alone in school?
Yes. Mohamed Bourouissa was the first one. I searched “art contemporain cité,” came across his work, and thought, “Wait, what? This is art?” That was the first time I felt it was legitimate to tell my story and to create something of my own. It’s pretty random, but that’s how I became an artist. That was the first time that I had this thought at all — in my second year of art school when I was twenty-two years old.
As a child, what were the kinds of shows that you would watch in Bordeaux?
I watched a lot of reality TV from France like Loft Story and Secret Story, l’Île de la Tentation, and Le Bachelor. I also watched Koh-Lanta and Pékin Express with my family. In the afternoon I would watch all the Disney Channel and MTV shows. And then when my parents went to bed, I would watch a lot of American shows like The Jerry Springer Show.
Jerry Springer? That’s so funny.
I was a huge fan of it. It would only play super late at night like most of the American shows. Sometimes I didn’t sleep at all — I would stay up all night watching American TV. There was a French version of it called Ça va se savoir! But it wasn’t as good.
What about video games? Did you play them growing up?
My parents didn’t have a lot of money, but my father spoiled us when it came to video games. We always had the latest console: Nintendo DS, PSP, Xbox. My uncle would then hack and upload all the games for me and my brother.
I remember all those hacks for video games — even free streaming services that my family members would bring to the US from Algeria. Which games were your favorites?
I would say GTA and COD because I would play them with my little brother. That and Mario Bros. After I grew up, I wasn’t able to buy new consoles, so I went years without playing at all. I’ve just recently restarted, maybe a bit too much. I was playing right before this interview, actually.
What were you playing?
Animal Crossing, because I felt like I needed some mental peace. But other than that, I play a lot of story-based adventures and visual novel games. They’re super basic in terms of gameplay but it’s interesting for me to see how the game makers create a scenario or what techniques they use to take someone by the hand and lead them through the story. So, I play a lot of these types of games but in an analytical way.
Well, when you play video games it’s part of your art practice. You’re doing research.
Yes, exactly. Except for Animal Crossing, which is just for relaxing.
In terms of visual novel games, watching La Potion, which was a piece you made for Frieze London, I really felt the avatar take me by the hand as you said before. We even saw the avatar take the hand of the human actor. You created that connection visually, but also emotionally for the viewer.
Yes! La Potion was a fifteen-minute film commissioned by Frieze London as part of the BMW Open Studio. The idea was to work with BMW engineers, and so I decided to collaborate with them on a video game, as I had done with Google’s engineers for my film Xenon Palace Championship. Both projects were very fun. La Potion is a video game where the avatar is your own persona — it looks like you, it feels like you, and you have to follow it into different emotional states. First, it’s melancholy, then it’s sadness, and at last, it’s peace. The player helps the avatar go through these different states to find serenity. So, during the film, there’s a relationship created between the player and the avatar and, ultimately, they go on the same journey from a negative mindset to a state of serenity together.
It’s so beautiful. Even though the main character in that was a man, I felt such a strong relationship to, and empathy for, him. Did you ever consider making the main character not male?
To be honest, no. Whenever I start a new project and write a new character it’s always a lone-wolf man and that’s instinctively the type of character I want to write a story for.
I notice that you mostly feature male avatars and characters in your work. What draws you towards the masculine?
When I was in high school and beginning at the Fine Arts School, I went through a complicated identity crisis because I was, as I said, one of the only Maghrebi students. Everyone else was white and well-off. I often felt like I lost track of who I was and where I was. During my years in art school, I did all this work on myself and about myself — often creating self-portraits — in an attempt to figure out who I was. Once I felt like that was done, I started to open my practice up to considering other people in my community. Then, in Marseille at the workshop I mentioned before, the teenage boys started talking to me about their lives, sharing deeply personal things. I got a sense that this was really unusual for them, and as the workshop went on, I realized that they didn’t have anyone else who they could talk to openly without being judged. They couldn’t tell anyone that they were sad, for example, they couldn’t cry in front of anyone. I had already spent a lot of time building trust with my little brother and making sure he felt he could be super open with me, and I felt this urgency to create a space where these boys could express themselves just as freely — a space that, unlike the rest of French cinema, was not making fun of them. I knew it needed to be a space far from reality. Together, we created a fictional world and journey, based on their real-life experiences where they could exist safely.
I felt this urgency to create a space where these boys could express themselves — a space that, unlike the rest of French cinema, was not making fun of them.
I felt this urgency to create a space where these boys could express themselves — a space that, unlike the rest of French cinema, was not making fun of them.
To this day, that is so rare. That’s why I feel that your work has a revolutionary impact — the French contemporary art system doesn’t want to see this or give it space, yet you continue to show it and do it. I’m curious, since your work is digital and is therefore internationally accessible, how do you feel about an audience outside of France encountering these themes?
To be honest, my work was and is still mostly shown everywhere except France. My first shows were in the Netherlands, Switzerland, and Belgium — my work was only shown in France much later. Because they’re still fucking racist and classist here.
Being shown in New York, being shown internationally, that’s the biggest success.
Thank you. I’m super sensitive about it and I know I should see that bigger picture more often. But to answer your question about an international audience — that wasn’t really something I thought about at first, at least not until I started to receive messages from non-French people who felt a connection to my work. Suddenly I realized that a lot of the emotions and references in my work are universal. Actually, I think I’m more scared about French people seeing my work than anyone else because critics here have all of these specifically French stereotypes in mind when they encounter work by Arab people.
I completely understand what you mean. I had never realized the sexualization of Algerian and Moroccan women in Paris until living here. Learning the word beurette when I was twenty years old was pretty shocking.
Damn, it’s been a long time since I heard that word. It’s always hard to process it.
And of course, you used the word beur in a subversive way when you coined the term “beurcore.”
I was so scared about that, even if it doesn’t have the fetichism side to it. I talked to my uncle who is Beur by definition about it beforehand, to see what his reaction would be — I felt it was really important to ask friends and family how they felt about it before I went ahead and used it.
It’s interesting that the consensus was in support of the subversive use of the word. Are you working on anything at the moment that you can talk about?
To be honest, I had a burnout last year, so I took some time for myself. And I’m starting, little by little, to get back into work again. I just finished a film, which will be shown in Geneva in a train station on a huge panoramic screen. I’m so nervous to see it on more than my little computer!
Congratulations! I’d love to see it when it’s ready. And I hope you know that people like me are seeing your work — that it is valuable for us.
Wow, thank you, Sarah.
No, thank you.
AA:
what does the revolution will be televised mean to you
Chat GPT:
The phrase “the revolution will be televised” originated from a 1970 song by Gil Scott-Heron. It suggests that the struggles for change, especially political or social revolution, would be broadcast on television—though not in the way activists or revolutionaries might hope. Instead of being directly engaged in or informed by the grassroots movements, the media would likely sensationalize or commercialize the event. It captures a tension between the authenticity of grassroots struggle and the way it might be mediated or controlled by mainstream media.
To me, the phrase also speaks to the idea of spectacle in activism—how movements might be commodified or reduced to entertainment or soundbites when presented through media. It’s a reflection on how technology can both connect people and distort the realities of social change.
AA:
no, gil scott heron said the revolution will not be televised
Chat GPT:
You’re absolutely right—Gil Scott-Heron’s poem/song “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” actually emphasizes that real, transformative social change won’t be captured or sanitized by the media. It warns against the idea that media coverage will authentically represent or convey the true nature of a revolution or movement. The revolution, in Scott-Heron’s view, will be a grassroots, lived experience, not a spectacle for consumption or commodification on TV.
The phrase “The revolution will be televised” is often used ironically, referencing the disconnect between the real struggles of revolution and the way they are typically portrayed by mass media, which can dilute or distort their meaning. So, when people say “the revolution will be televised,” they may be acknowledging that, while media will likely cover it, it will never truly capture the raw, genuine heart of a revolutionary movement.
It’s a critique of the media’s role in shaping narratives and a reminder that meaningful change happens beyond the reach of spectacle.
AA:
so what would the revolution WILL be televised mean to you
Chat GPT:
“The revolution WILL be televised” flips the original idea on its head. If we take it literally and in a contemporary sense, it could suggest that social movements or revolutions are now not only covered by media, but actually shaped and influenced by the media itself. In the age of social media, live streaming, and 24/7 news cycles, revolutions and activism are happening in real-time, and the narrative is often driven by the visibility they gain on platforms like Twitter, Instagram, or TikTok.
In this sense, the revolution could be televised (or streamed, or shared) in a way that amplifies voices and causes, helping them to spread globally. However, there’s still the question of whether such media coverage is accurate or authentic. It might be more about spectacle or performative activism than genuine, transformative change.
So, to me, “The revolution WILL be televised” could mean that while media and technology can give revolutions unprecedented exposure, it also raises questions about the impact of that exposure. Is the revolution being commodified? Is it truly transformative, or is it just another trend being broadcast for consumption?