Art. The shit that motherfuckers do. Awkward, detail obsessed motherfuckers. Think about everything inside out. Awkward conversation. Hanging on words or ideas. Word play. Obsessed with the little things. Pretty pictures make it okay. An aid for others to relate to or celebrate your dysfunctional urges. Sarcastic thrills. Straight faced comedy. Perversion, advantage, deviation of considered truths. Focus.
Street Art. Sat down late at night and ate a burrito in a sketchy part of Hollywood. Sat around privileged out of place motherfuckers. Deserve to be robbed, second hand thrift store motherfuckers. Watched as they chiseled nothing into the dining bench with a lighter. Gentrification spawned figurative street art. Budget artists moved to inexpensive areas with space. Coffee shops, thrift boutiques, and ex-bodega galleries followed. Privileged motherfuckers flock to “hot spots” and commutable convenience. Digestible. The urban adventure. Clip art wheat pastes eventually decorate these areas. Art without soul. Surface high. Flat excitement. Commercials. Identifiable shit. Understood to be less threatening. Empty.
Stay home, stay in your studio.
Graffiti. That shit that happens outside. Full bodied application. Complicated motherfucker’s sport. Interaction. Force play. Passion. Killing your old self by obsessing over something absurd. Too old for this shit. Young at heart. Gray trickling in. Street smart, 20 + years of experience. Handmade master of your craft. Contradictive self. Almost like art. Bend backwards and relearn to fit into a gallery setting. Forced containment. Canvas work is a fraction of yourself. That thing gallery artists used to do.
Some of the top people who document and define what graffiti is, don’t even know how to read it.