stop me if you’ve heard this one…
but i have a new obsession/observation/fascination with…
drum roll please…
graffiti!!! call it youthful expression, vandalism, public art, counter culture at it’s own critical mass… call it what you will… but i’m feeling it.
graffiti |gr??f?t?|
plural noun ( sing. -to |-t?|) [treated as sing. or pl. ]
writing or drawings scribbled, scratched, or sprayed illicitly on a wall or other surface in a public place : the walls were covered with graffiti | [as adj. ] a graffiti artist.
verb [ trans. ]
write or draw graffiti on (something) : he and another artist graffitied an entire train.
• write (words or drawings) as graffiti.
DERIVATIVES
graffitist |-tist| |gr??fid1st| noun
ORIGIN mid 19th cent.: from Italian (plural), from graffio ‘a scratch.’
ok, backstory: yes, i owned Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo at a young age.
listened to the beastie boys, and 2livecrew when i was in elementary school
maybe i was even responsible for some sharpie art in my day…
but, now? at my age? graffiti?
it all started over on one fine saturday afternoon, when i had a couple of hours to kill strolling up and down solano avenue. i ended up in a bookstore. as soon as i saw the cover to “street art”, i flipped through a few pages, and it was all over for me. i was hooked. not only had i found a new form of personal expression that had brought me closer to my roots… but i thought i had found my mother fucking people. i paid cash for my new found treasure, and went strolling on my merry way.
meanwhile, for the past year or so i had been photographing tags all over town. i found it amusing at times, and often insightful at others. there is wisdom in the vandalism, i thought. wisdom in the experience of being a vandal. i saw my initials with a star at my bus stop one day… and even though i did not write them, i appreciated that someone else did. they were fearless in my eyes. and even though that fearlessness could simply be the result of inexperience… i envied that naivety.
then it came to me… am i not a vandal, myself, deep down inside? carving my initials in every head of hair i come into contact with? inscribing words into peoples minds with my mouth and not my hand? could i not swing back full circle to the young rebel who feared nothing? is it too late?
and am i not, still, a revolutionary?