SPARK
SI-003, from issue1, 2021.
Sometimes “Design” feels a little boring.
Mark Bohle is a graphic designer based in Barcelona, where the Starbucks windows are perpetually smashed. He splits his time between getting sunburnt while spraying graffiti, running the online art store Dietz, and designing campaigns for brands like Puma.
It’s nice to meet you in the digital world. A friend recently gave me this book with your posters in it—they’re wild. In the Graphic Design Festival Scotland 2019 Catalogue, you said that three things make you happy: colors, melancholy, and doing things you are convinced of. How do you actually measure that?
(laughs) I don’t think you can measure it—not in the way you’d measure a goal or a budget. It’s not concrete like that. But you can feel it. It’s about conviction. If you’re working on something and it feels wrong—or worse, if it feels empty—you know it’s not going to work. And I think this applies to more than design, no? You can only work on things that you believe in, even if that belief is messy or contradictory.
Are you sketching right now? I’m picturing you as this archetypal artist—sketching while talking.
No, no, no! (laughs) I’m just nervous. Calls make me fidgety. It’s the same with smoking—honestly, I don’t even like it. I just do it sometimes when I’m with people. It’s not about the cigarette; it’s just something to do with my hands.
That’s interesting, because looking at your work, it feels like you avoid working in isolation. Collaboration seems to be a constant.
It is. I mean, working alone is fine, but it’s limiting. You can fall into patterns—you’re running in circles without even realizing it. Collaboration brings this unpredictable energy. It can be a punch in the face sometimes. I’ve worked with Nam for years—since university, so maybe 10 years now—and I’m still surprised by him. He’ll throw out this insane idea, and I’m just sitting there like, what the fuck? Where did that even come from? That’s the beauty of it. Someone else’s brain pushes you out of your habits.
I saw on Instagram that you were painting this abstract mural with friends in this beautiful Mediterranean spot. How does graffiti fit into all of this?
Graffiti’s always been a part of my life. I started really young—I don’t even remember how old I was. But when I turned 20, I had to stop. The police were a problem. You can’t exactly explain to them that you’re just doing it for art or for fun. But now I’ve come back to it in a different way. It’s no longer about rebellion; it’s about reconnecting with something raw.
Do you plan these murals out in advance, or is it more spontaneous?
These days, I plan. Maybe that’s just me getting older. When I was younger, it was all about spontaneity. We’d just grab cans, find a wall, and go for it—no sketches, no preparation. It didn’t matter if it was chaotic or sloppy. But now, I think ahead. I’ll sketch the day before, figure out the palette, and make sure I’m sober enough to get up early and start. It’s not about losing the energy or freedom, but about refining it.
The act of painting feels so physical, so immediate. Design can feel too controlled sometimes—too polished. But with graffiti, there’s this tension. It’s large-scale drawing, and it’s all about the process. That’s what makes it interesting.
It’s also ephemeral, right? It exists out there in the world, for anyone to see or ignore. No clients, no ads. Just raw expression.
Exactly. But even in that freedom, I think there’s a responsibility to communicate something. If it’s totally random, it becomes closer to art than design. And that’s fine—but I’m always aware of where I want to place it. Graffiti sits on the border between those two worlds.
Your posters for the Merlin Theater seem to embody that freedom too—they didn’t feel aimed at an intellectual or commercial audience. How did that happen?
It’s about context. With that project, we had space to experiment. There were so many posters, so if one felt too wild or “fashionable,” it didn’t matter. That’s what made it exciting—just testing things. But even then, it’s not pure chaos. There are still boundaries, guidelines. If everything is crazy, nothing stands out. You have to choose your moments.
When do you know a poster is done? Or is that impossible to decide?
It’s always subjective. When I studied art, we’d talk about this all the time—especially with painting. How do you know the last stroke is the last one? There’s no formula. You trust your eyes, your instincts. And sometimes you’re wrong. That’s part of it too—realizing later that you should have stopped earlier or pushed further.
One of your posters for Patrick Thomas used a heat gun, which isn’t exactly a typical designer’s tool. How did you decide on that?
That was simple. The exhibition was called 700 Degrees Fahrenheit—that’s the temperature paper burns. So, we used fire. It wasn’t just a gimmick; it came from the concept. That’s how I like to work—finding the right tool or process for the project.
Do you have a favorite project where you pushed the limits like that?
The Puma festival identity comes to mind. They wanted to launch a shoe and connect with Gen Z. So, we started with this dull, almost corporate typography—very straightforward. But then we added hundreds of GIFs, pulling animations from across the internet. It was chaotic, but in a deliberate way. It wasn’t about randomness for the sake of it. The process became part of the concept. That’s what I loved about it—it started one way but took a completely unexpected road.
It feels like you’re always balancing control and chaos.
Yeah, and it’s not easy. It’s tempting to lean too far in one direction. But the best work happens in that tension.
Your crayon and graphite pieces are different—they feel more personal, but online, they take on another dimension.
It’s strange, isn’t it? Something that’s so private—a sketch on paper—becomes part of your public identity once it’s online. It’s not the same thing anymore. That transformation is fascinating, but also a bit unsettling.
To conclude, do you have any advice for your future self?
Keep experimenting. I’ve just started Dietz, this online shopping mall, and Nam and I are working on building a studio together. It’s exciting but also overwhelming. My advice would be: don’t lose that sense of play.
How did Dietz start?
It actually came from my university project. I set up a stand at a weekly market and sold bananas. It was ridiculous, but it sparked something. Now, Dietz is about creating a space where different ideas and people come together. It’s chaotic, but there’s a structure.
Thank you so much, Mark. Let’s keep in touch.
Thanks for having me. I’m excited to see this in print.
Follow Mark’s work here.
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