graffiti, a meritocracy

Design an image, crafting it lovingly from the aether. Make it appealing to look at, and fill it will subtle meaning. Then, after much gentle and loving effort, venture out into the night and glue it to a pole, abandoning it there. This is the life of the street artist. Once his picture is up and his work is done, he vanishes into the darkness to wait and see how the Universe will respond. As a seasoned veteran of the streets, he operates cunningly and without ado; occasionally, however, he struggles with memories of earlier agony. Oh how he would sweat when first starting out, and quiver, his knees shaking on the way to check and see if his image were still up or if it had been scraped down or covered over in the few hours since it was born. Oh how he would wallow in sadness at finding his tender little piece plastered over with another person's art, or, worse, hacked off and discarded by a member of one of those Artwork Desecration Teams. The budding street artist suffers trepidation because his graffiti – once it is stuck up or otherwise applied – stops belonging to just one person and becomes the common property of anyone who might look at it; it merges with the harsh and tumultuous meritocracy that is graffiti.

If the graffiti artist wants to keep his sanity, he will realize quickly (by delving deeply into his soul-space and maintaining a proper equilibrium there) that his street art, along with the graffiti applied by the next vandal, is just one segment in a giant, shifting mosaic applied by hundreds of selfless SDUBS (Self Directed Urban Beautification Specialists) whose goal is to enliven the otherwise colorless and visually barren asphalt landscape (phaltscape). With enough experience he will understand that by covering only a portion of his piece instead of defacing it entirely, the other street artists deem his art edgy, unique, or beautiful enough to merit a continuing existence on wall, pole, and street-sign. (Exceptions to this rule include if his work is so terribly lame as to be worth neither time nor effort to cover over or if he is particularly good at putting his pieces in places few others might reach, which in itself would prove his mettle.) As long as he stays in the graffiti game, he shall, in time, develop a vandal's eye of his own, which will allow him to judge which pieces to cover over, which to incorporate into his newest work of art, and which to not touch at all.

His is a dangerous game of applying and fleeing, watching and forgetting, shrugging and re-applying. His is a world in which his city destroys his art nearly as quickly as he can apply it, a world in which his work must stand not only the test of time but also appeal to the sensibilities of any subsequent vandal whose primarily purpose is to destroy the phaltscape. He must keep one eye out for meddlesome and ever-watchful cops while contending with some of the finest artists operating today for display space, artists who plaster over poor and inferior works of art mercilessly and without hesitation. Such is life in the harsh meritocracy of the graffiti-writer.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥

American heritage desecrated in Los Angeles

  Westwood, which sits in a shallow ravine beside the 405 freeway, resembled not long ago any other college town in America. But today, those of her denizens early at their business – the bums looting in trash cans, the kids heading to class, and the professionals out for coffee – these otherwise unrelated individuals gaped commonly in horror to find their little slice of phaltscape stripped nearly bare of street art.

  What draconian tactics the foes of undirected urban beautification are, and with what speed they move! Not five days ago, Westwood was where people came to marvel and to rejoice at the riot of stickers and posters and graffiti that adorned the empty and the forgotten spaces, where they flocked to gather images to upload to their weblogs, where they rested to gaze at the pictures of free art captured inside their pocket-sized computers. But now, with their town whitewashed nearly beyond recognition, native Westwoodians wander around as if betrayed, while outsiders hurry along shooting about themselves with strange and mournful glances.

  Layers of priceless street art were simply scraped off and discarded. Cunningly executed and deftly applied pieces of unique artwork done by world renowned artists were sprayed over and defaced. From the burning of the library at Baghdad to the fire that raged in L.A.'s Central Library, seldom has the artistic effluence of mankind been so brazenly and so effectively destroyed as in this current action. Imagine if a wing of your favorite museum burnt to the ground, and the pain you would feel; such is the pain that lovers of street art now feel. Picture someone stabbing at your favorite painting and prying it from place with a long metal scraper, and the anguish that would fill you; similarly filled are admirers of this all too fleeting form of artistic expression.

  Not only is the product of thousands of man hours of artistic effort gone from all but memory, but the cruel effort of the courageous and selfless street artist is at this time being dumped into a pit somewhere outside the town of Calabasas. The self-motivated urban beautification specialist never rests, however – she will be at it again, making her rounds and pursuing her Happiness with vigor and daring. As her pen forever flicks so her art forever sticks.

  場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit

(pictures of some of the lost street art are at urbanartuploads.tumblr.com or at urbanartuploads.blogspot.com)

p.s. street art found painted over and and similarly desecrated at the intersection of Hollywood Boulevard and Western Avenue – this may be a larger effort than I had imagined