From blasting Zeppelin cassettes to painting cowboys in the desert, Mark Maggiori’s journey from France to the American West is as cinematic as his canvases. Raised far from ranch life, he now creates from his Scottsdale studio—and has become a standout in contemporary Western art. His work has headlined magazines, topped $500,000 at auction, and won fans worldwide.
In this exclusive conversation, Mark retraces his path—from a teenage road trip across America to a music career, a film detour, and the moment it all clicked in a cowboy museum in Oklahoma.
We photographed Mark at Skyeview, a resort-style rental perched atop Camelback Mountain, where his artwork lines the walls—including a striking centerpiece at the entrance. With 4 bedrooms, 3 baths, and every amenity designed for rest and recharge, it was the perfect gallery-meets-sanctuary setting to bring Mark’s art—and energy—to life.
Mark, let’s rewind to the beginning. You’re 15, coming from France, on a road trip across the U.S. witnessing the vast American landscape unfolding before you for the very first time. That experience clearly left an imprint.
We went to the Grand Canyon… Canyon de Chelly, did the whole thing. Me and my cousin were like, “Yeah, that’s cool. It’s hot.” We were 15. We wanted some beer. But we took photos. My dream is for my cousin to come and recreate that photo together—same gear, same pose, just older. Really, I was just obsessed with Vans, and determined to find the teddy bear shoes I so desperately wanted in the U.S.
Did you ever track them down?
No. I collect Vans. I have one of the biggest collections of high-top Vans- even some from the 60s and 70s.
When you got back to France, you started a band?
Yeah. I loved skateboarding and skating leads to music. On that road trip, my uncle bought us tapes from gas stations. We got Led Zeppelin. Those tapes changed everything.
I started learning guitar because of Led Zeppelin. I greatly admired the singer, Robert Plant. But his voice was untouchable. So I decided I’d be Jimmy Page instead.
You seem incredibly driven—does that come from your dad, the philosophy teacher?
Maybe. I regret not getting more from my dad in that way. My dad would give me one-liners like, “Freedom is not doing what you want—it’s knowing what you don’t want.” I didn’t get it then, but now I see it.
So when the band got going, what was it called?
Pleymo. I was the singer. We got big in France, and signed with Sony/Epic.
What kind of music did you play?
Nu-metal. French Limp Bizkit. Rapped in French. Crazy shows. Huge crowds. We toured everywhere.
What would you say was the band’s breakout moment?
We gave our demo to a guy at a record store. He put it in the listening station. A few days later, he sold out and invited us to play. There was a line around the block. During the show, the crowd was so wild they broke the stage. That’s when I knew we were onto something.
And you were also juggling art school...
Yes. I studied graphic design at the Académie Julian in Paris. During the week, I was in school and interning at Disney. On weekends, I was playing concerts with the band. No sleep. Total grind.
I thought I’d go into animation or concept art—maybe work at Disney. I actually did three summers as an intern with them. It was amazing.
When did you start directing music videos?
I started directing our own videos because I had a vision for how the band should look. Then other bands started asking me to direct for them. That led to a full career in music videos and commercials.
And that’s how you met your wife…
Yes, on set. I noticed her immediately. Later, we did a short film together in Chloride, Arizona. A magical little town. That film was super personal.
When did you begin transitioning from video to painting?
I was visiting her family in Oklahoma and her dad said, “Go check out the Cowboy Museum.” I did—and it blew my mind. I didn’t even know Western art existed like that. I stayed for three hours and left thinking, “This is what I want to do.”
So what did you paint first?
A cowboy, based on an old black-and-white photo. Then I photographed a friend on a horse and painted that. That felt more personal.
And you starting blowing up on Instagram...
My wife made me do it. I was against it. But she said, “Trust me.” And it opened every door.
A gallery in L.A. saw my work on Instagram and invited me to bring in some pieces. I brought three. They wrote me a check for $5,000. That moment changed everything.
I still post on social myself. I write my own captions. It’s all real.
Was the Western art world skeptical of you at first?
A bit. I made some mistakes—wrong ropes, wrong hats. But I had mentors. I studied, I listened. I wasn’t trying to fake it—I wanted to honor the tradition and get it right.
What’s your painting process like today?
Slower, deeper. I used to make 25 paintings a year. Now I do maybe 7 or 8. But each one means more. I want every brushstroke to count.
What draws you to cowboys?
The solitude. The freedom. They represent independence, connection to the land. It’s not about romanticizing the past—it’s about spirit.
And you also paint Native American subjects.
Yes, but with care. I do deep research. I talk to people. I make sure I understand the history. It’s about respect.
What’s the most your work has sold for?
$500,000. I still can’t believe it. But I don’t paint for money—I paint because I have something to say.
And you have a fan in Kevin Costner!
Surreal. I showed him one of my works and he loved it. Later, I painted him from a photo and sent it to him. He replied, “Sir, you are a poet with a paintbrush.” That was a moment.
You've mentioned a back injury. How has that affected your work?
I used to ride horses more, travel more. Now I have to be careful. But in a way, it forced me to slow down. I’m more intentional with how I spend my energy. I’ve learned to listen to my body.
What’s life like day-to-day for you in Scottsdale?
Mellow. Wake up, make coffee, see my daughter off to school. Then I paint. I like the quiet.
I love Arizona. It's clean, calm, and good for our family. And there’s inspiration everywhere.
How do you balance fatherhood and being a full-time artist?
I keep my schedule flexible. I want her to grow up seeing what it looks like to follow a creative path. My girls are creative, but also their own people. I’ll support them no matter what.
Your wife is American artist and designer Petecia Le Fawnhawk. Do you collaborate on creative projects?
Sometimes. She has her own art practice, but we inspire each other. We have different styles, and that’s a good thing.
What’s something people might not know about you?
I’m shy. People see the image online and assume I’m super confident. I think more than I talk.
How do you stay grounded as your career grows?
I stay close to my family. I focus on the work. Hype comes and goes, but the work keeps me centered.
What’s the hardest part of being a professional artist?
Saying no. There are many opportunities—shows, interviews, collabs. But every “yes” takes time from painting. I’ve learned to protect my time.
What do you do when you hit creative blocks?
I go outside. I step away. I remind myself why I paint. I don’t force it. The worst thing is to paint when you're not feeling it—it shows.
Do you ever feel pressure to top your last piece?
Of course. That’s part of it. But I try not to paint for praise. I paint what I feel, what I see, what I want to say.
What’s one painting that means the most to you?
A portrait of my wife. It hangs in our home. It’s more than any commission or gallery piece. It reminds me why I started.
What’s your favorite part of the creative process?
The middle. The part where it’s starting to come together, but it’s not done yet. That’s where the magic happens.
What do you listen to when you paint?
Led Zeppelin, always. Pink Floyd, old-school rock. Silence is powerful too.
What do you do to unwind?
Vintage markets. Searching eBay for rare Vans. Cooking with my daughter.
What do you hope people feel when they see your work?
A sense of stillness. Connection. I want them to feel something—peace, wonder, maybe even memory.
What’s your dream project?
Maybe a film. Or an immersive gallery show—multi-sensory, storytelling through art. Something beyond the canvas.
Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
Still painting. Hopefully healthier. Maybe splitting time between Arizona and Europe. Spending more time with the people I love.
What’s one lesson you’ve learned?
Be patient. The world moves fast, but good art takes time. Trust yourself—your voice matters.
What do you want your legacy to be?
I hope people say I cared. That I painted with truth. That I honored the West—and made space for beauty in chaos.
markmaggiori.com
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