“Boxing is an oblique form of self-definition.” Storyteller Joyce Carol Oates waxed poetic about the infinite expressive potential contained within the ring. The same can be said of the broader realm of fighting. When human beings reach the apex of physical confrontation, where everything is exposed and stripped bare, movement is molded by primal instinct, endless repetition, and flow. In that fragile, electric space, fighting transcends competition and becomes art: the most direct expression of the self, of identity.

From Muay Thai camps in Thailand to Serbian kickboxing, through the ultras subcultures of Spartak Moscow and Naples to boxing gyms in Jamaica and the United States, Boogie’s anthropological gaze affirms the raw and lyrical nature of fighting. His work captures this multi-faceted sporting culture that spans the globe. It finds voice within those grey areas where fighting emerges as both a timeless muse and a reflection of life itself.

Ahead of the official opening of ‘Fighting as Art,’ taking place this evening at 5 pm at the Champion showroom on Rue de Turenne in Paris, we explored the direct relationship between the Serbian photographer, protagonist of the exhibition, and the world of fighting.

The bell is about to ring. If you’re in Paris, you can join this celebration of fighting. In the meantime, let’s turn to Boogie’s reflections.

Let’s start from your roots and from the core of the exhibition ‘Fighting as Art’. You were shaped by cities like Belgrade and New York. What role did fighting, understood as a social, sporting, and cultural force, play in your personal journey?

“I’ve trained martial arts and fighting pretty much since I was a kid. Karate was the first sport I practiced. Back then, those disciplines were just starting to spread, and the process was always the same: you’d go to the movies, watch a Bruce Lee film, and the next day every kid would be imitating the moves and enrolling in a karate school. That’s how it worked where I grew up. You were led to learn how to punch properly from a very young age. So when I see a grown man who doesn’t know how to throw a punch, it feels strange to me. But again, that’s my upbringing. I don’t know how it works in other cultures. Where I come from it’s normal to have some basic fighting skills: at least enough to defend yourself.”

As you shared, you’ve been practicing fighting in different forms for your entire life. How has this realm influenced your photographic path?

“My whole life has been a form of fighting: physically, mentally, fighting for something. No one ever gave me anything, so I had to fight for everything. There’s a direct correlation there.”

The Paris audience will see a series of images shot in Surčin, a raw district of Belgrade. After the Yugoslav wars, kickboxing took on multiple meanings in places like the Topic Team Gym. What were you trying to capture through those images?

“I never try to say anything or moralize through my work. I just capture what’s in front of me. I try to get as close as possible to the person: in this case, to the fighters. And people respond to my energy. I’m not trying to explain anything: I’m showing things as they are. These guys love fighting, they live it. To be good at something, you have to live it. I live photography. They live fighting. You have to be one with what you do.”

Moving to another section of the exhibition, in Thailand fighting carries a strong spiritual dimension. What struck you most while documenting Muay Thai?

“I trained Muay Thai in Bangkok for a month. It’s brutal, especially if you didn’t grow up there. The humidity makes it hard to breathe, and every training session is excruciating. That was the only trip where I realized I couldn’t both train and shoot. Even something as simple as jumping rope feels like torture: the ropes are basically rubber hoses, and when they hit your toes, it really hurts. You finish training surrounded by a puddle of sweat. Muay Thai is a poor people’s sport. Educated people with stable lives in Thailand don’t practice it. Fighters start very young, and by the time they’re 20 they risk being completely worn out. From what I saw, the best possible outcome is becoming a trainer, but even that eventually destroys your body. Honestly, I think the spiritual side is mostly decorative. It looks good and works well for tourists, but when you see the living conditions in those camps, you understand that it’s really about survival. When you’re dirt poor, you don’t think about rituals or gods, you think about your next meal.”

Let’s focus on the exhibition title, ‘Fighting as Art’. Drawing from your direct experience, when does fighting move beyond pure physical confrontation and become an artistic form?

“To execute a punch well, you need to repeat it thousands of times. To be good at anything, you need years and years. When you can turn off your brain and act without thinking: that’s when it becomes art. Thinking is the enemy of fighting, of photography, of art. The moment you think, it’s gone. Good things happen when instincts take over. A true fighter, a true artist of fighting, is the most peaceful person in the world. He doesn’t need to prove anything. He avoids fighting outside the ring. But once he enters it, he switches. Mike Tyson said it best. First: “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” No thinking. No plans. You follow your rhythm. He also said he cried before every fight. He was terrified. I’m the same before a shoot. The day before, I don’t leave my hotel room. I freak out. But once it starts, it’s like a switch flips. If you’re not scared, it means it doesn’t matter, or you’re about to get knocked out.”

Champion has long been an integral part of fighting culture, and its presence continues to support the evolution of this realm within contemporary sport and beyond. What do you think about the role of such an iconic brand in shaping a shared sporting and cultural language?

“Rocky. When I think Champion, I think Rocky. You don’t need anything else. That scene of him running up the steps in Philadelphia, along with the most iconic moments of the early Rocky movies, defined, in my view, the soul of the brand itself. Some moments, some cultural crossovers, have the power to define a brand forever. From that point on, Champion became real to me. Old-school. Timeless. No bullshit. Push-ups on your fists.”

Another chapter of the ‘Fighting as Art’ exhibition focuses on street fighting in Thailand. What did Bangkok’s streets reveal to you?

“It was organized street fighting, matched by weight. And it was actually very interesting, because the guys who looked invincible usually got knocked out first. The underdogs won. I always root for the underdog. And that connects to Champion as well. It’s not about showing off. It’s about proving yourself without superficial layers. And not going down.”

From Asian streets to Caribbean gyms: what does boxing reveal in countries like Jamaica, and did you notice any stylistic differences compared to other boxing schools, such as the Serbian one?

“It shows that if there’s a will, there’s a way. You don’t need fancy equipment. If you want it badly enough, you find a way. There’s no real difference from other places in terms of style. The main difference is time. In the past, fighters everywhere trained three or four times a week. Today, even amateurs have to dedicate their entire lives to it. Once money got involved heavily, boxing became a global business.”

In this regard, how does the morphology of boxing change when your gaze shifts to gyms in the United States, another key thematic focus of the exhibition?

“In the U.S., it’s pure survival. It’s business. Competition is fierce, financially and in terms of talent. Vintage, Rocky-style gyms barely exist anymore. In places like Russia, they still do. Real boxing gyms, built for boxing from the start. Simple. Functional. Honest. Punching bags go up, warm-up starts, bags go down, training begins.”

The final chapter of Fighting as Art moves beyond the ring and into the stadium, exploring the ultras subculture from Spartak Moscow to Naples. How do you read this phenomenon, which plays such a significant role in your documentary work? And how does fighting take shape in the spaces surrounding a stadium?

“I’m always surprised by how seriously people take the ultras subculture. Sure, it’s often connected to gangs, drugs, territory… And some people do make money out of it. But dedicating your life to a football club still feels strange to me. Life is hard. Negativity builds up. People need a release. You go there, you scream, you fight, sometimes even in the woods, like the Russian ultras, and then you go home calm, until the next game. There’s also a strong sense of belonging. A second family, especially if your first one failed you. Napoli was completely different from Moscow. Pure positivity. The Scudetto gave everyone a reason to celebrate. In Napoli, they take it to another level: face paint, total devotion… Like it’s going to change your life, even if your fridge was empty before the Scudetto and it’s still empty after. That’s why I’m fascinated by it.”