NEW YORK— Shepard Fairey rose to fame on the broad shoulders of Andre the Giant. As an illustration student at the Rhode Island School of Design in the early 1990s, Fairey transformed a sticker depicting the now-deceased professional wrestler into one of the most recognizable unsanctioned works of public art in the world. Over the next ten years the image would undergo stylistic refinements—from a crude stencil painting to a cropped face executed in the stark lines of 1920s Constructivist-style, Soviet propaganda—as it turned into an international urban phenomenon, posted on buildings, billboards, and street signs across the globe. Eventually bearing the Orwellian caption "Obey," it became as iconic as a brand logo.

The move was both an attention-demanding gesture of a young art student and a far-reaching critique of street-side advertising, and by the late '90s, Fairey's angular black, red, and white images had become synonymous with a new street art—and the trendsetting 20-something kids on skateboards associated with it. As a street artist, he was known around the world. As a commercial artist, his purchase on youth culture was in demand. Naturally, the art world also took note, and he began showing more elaborate prints and silk screens at galleries.

The triangulation of work for public spaces, commercial commissions, and fine art has been central to the 37-year-old artist's career ever since. Fairey still creates work for the street. He has recently executed several high-profile commissions, including ad campaigns, album covers, and a poster for the Oscar-winning Johnny Cash biopic "Walk the Line," and produced his own line of clothing under the "Obey" brand. And his work is now in the collections of several major museums.

While Fairey's art still relies on forceful lines and occasionally includes his signature giant, in recent years he has begun to incorporate more decorative elements, even as his images becomes more overtly political. A two-part exhibition of new work, "E Pluribus Venom," shows him riffing on such tropes of Americana as the moire patterns of paper currency and the kitchen-table optimism of Norman Rockwell. The first section is on view in Jonathan LeVine's Manhattan gallery from June 23 through July 21 and features paintings, screen prints, stencils, and mixed-media works. The second half, staged in a Brooklyn project space from June 21 through July 6, comprises work that Fairey has executed as if on the street—but with a level of detail that is practically impossible when an artist is looking over his shoulder for police.

Fairey also had time to take a break from installing the Brooklyn show to speak with ARTINFO.

Shepard, this new body of work marks a strong departure from your well-known, Constructivist-inspired style. How did it evolve?

When I was really, really focusing on the Constructivist thing, there was more of an air of mystery surrounding who I was and what my work was doing, and I was largely just trying to be provocative. Advertising is subtle propaganda, so by doing something in an overt propaganda style on the street, I was trying to get people to question my work. Then hopefully the next domino would fall, and people would begin to question everything else, too.

Starting about five years ago, my work began evolving away from the straight propaganda style. What I've tried to keep is what works at a glance about propaganda—those really bold images and colors that grab your attention and make you care to figure out what the communication is about. But I've also incorporated a lot of Art Nouveau and decorative elements that aren't as harsh.

Does your recent work lend itself more readily to display in the gallery, rather than in public?

I still do a lot of stuff for the street, but it's a simplified version of what's in the gallery. On the street, the work has to be read immediately, whereas in the gallery, where you have people standing and looking at something for a couple of minutes, you can be a little more sophisticated with it. I'm trying to maintain a balance between overt iconography that stands out immediately and work that invites a second and a third read.

In this regard, your work has become subtler. But its political content is now more explicit.

I was really afraid of being didactic at first because I didn't necessarily think that I knew all the solutions, but then during the 2004 election, I realized that people who probably knew less than I did were running the country. So I was like, "Fuck it, I might as well."

Is there any contradiction with the fact that you've also always done commercial work?

For a long time, I couldn't make a living just from art, so commercial work was the way that I paid the bills—and honed my skills.

Do art dealers sometimes feel that your commercial work dilutes the value of your one-off or small-edition pieces?

I think the galleries that I choose to work with understand where I'm coming from. When I was younger, T-shirts from punk bands and skateboard companies influenced my aesthetic more than anything going on in the art world. For me, it was always about getting people to care about art and graphics and politics, and the power of communication in general. That is not going to happen with gallery shows geared for people who already feel qualified to go look at, evaluate, and interpret art.

That's why Keith Haring went to Central Park and gave away lithos of his paintings that were selling for $15,000, and Tony Shafrazi was so bummed out. Some people say, "Well, that waters down your fine art." My reply is always: "Actually, I broke into the fine art world—crashed in sideways or whatever—because I started with T-shirts and posters." Bypassing all that would completely undermine my project.

Is that why it's important that you keep making work for the street?

I think it's important to completely shred the notion that you cannot be critiquing and participating in the system simultaneously. There's this idea that your ideals have been corrupted and you've been absorbed by the evil system just because you're dealing with it. To me, this insults people's intelligence.

Look at Banksy. He's a great illustration of where I'm coming from. I've been friends with him for eight years, and recently his work has escalated in value exponentially. Damien Hirst took him under his wing and helped re-present him in the art-world context, but Banksy's paintings still have a simple methodology that resonates with pretty much everybody, and it's free when you see it on the street.

Damien Hirst, on the other hand, just made a skull encrusted with diamonds. It's like $100 million, and it's dipped in platinum or whatever. It's impressive, but it's millions of dollars worth of material for what I think is a two-cent idea. I think Banksy's stuff is million-dollar ideas made with two-cents worth of material.