Walls Talking
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Renovated with air conditioning old New Orleans French Quarter style ...
New Orleans, Louisiana, USA
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Wall-talk
Doel is een dorp in de Belgische provincie Oost-Vlaanderen en een deelgemeente van Beveren. Doel ligt in het uiterste noordoosten van de provincie, op de linkeroever van de Schelde, in de polders van het Waasland, vlak bij de Nederlandse grens. In de Wase dialecten noemt men het dorp "Den Doel". Doel raakte sinds de jaren zestig bekend door uitbreidingsplannen voor de haven van Antwerpen die het dorp zouden laten verdwijnen. Sinds 1998 zijn er nieuwe plannen voor een nieuw dok dwars over het dorp.
Wikipedia
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Real talk son, graff on the brain shit was insane Nah′mean?
I got 25 cans in my knapsack
Hands in the air
Wanna daydream while im writing graffiti
I spent hours writin' graffiti
I spent hours... puttin' up my name in a fat cap
Yo I can still smell the paint in the air, like I was there
I used to ride the 7 train way back and just stare
At the colors on the roof, pale yellow was the shit
Everybody wildin′ out, anybody was a vic
Pilot marker in my pocket, everything was gettin′ hit
When you come through correct, your whole style get bit
Triple outline, takin' my time to look crisp
Can control, crushin′ cops straight stomp, we don't miss
Four fingertips, street krylons like 4 clips
Kill something spray and pass the weapon, keep steppin′
Niggas know my style still reppin' no question
I drop a lot of truth when I rhyme so pay attention
In New York, we make walls talk free expression
Beyond comprehension of the regular
#skynbuildings #espacioenforma #fineart_architecture #getolympus #ig_ometry #addicted_to_facades #cleanfacades #nationalarchitecture #walls_talking #gf_architecture #1_unlimited #pocket_architecture #archi_focus_on #fromwherewearch #lookingup_architecture #arkiromantix #sky_high_architecture #exploremn #ptk_architecture #tv_architecture #jj_architecture #icu_architecture #rsa_architecture #tv_buildings #drugougleb #super_architecture_channel #patternplanetme #kings_miark #rustlord_archdesign #archi_unlimited
#skynbuildings #espacioenforma #fineart_architecture #getolympus #ig_ometry #addicted_to_facades #cleanfacades #nationalarchitecture #walls_talking #gf_architecture #1_unlimited #pocket_architecture #archi_focus_on #fromwherewearch #lookingup_architecture #arkiromantix #sky_high_architecture #exploremn #ptk_architecture #tv_architecture #jj_architecture #icu_architecture #rsa_architecture #tv_buildings #drugougleb #super_architecture_channel #patternplanetme #kings_miark #rustlord_archdesign #archi_unlimited
#skynbuildings #espacioenforma #fineart_architecture #getolympus #ig_ometry #addicted_to_facades #cleanfacades #nationalarchitecture #walls_talking #gf_architecture #1_unlimited #pocket_architecture #archi_focus_on #fromwherewearch #lookingup_architecture #arkiromantix #sky_high_architecture #exploremn #ptk_architecture #tv_architecture #jj_architecture #icu_architecture #rsa_architecture #tv_buildings #drugougleb #super_architecture_channel #patternplanetme #kings_miark #rustlord_archdesign #archi_unlimited
I might post a series about these two abandoned adobe dwellings. I spent some time in them listening to the walls talk and watching the shadows move.
This Juke Joint is STILL operating in Merigold, MS.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR8OB5IShHU&feature=related
INTERVIEW w. Photographer: www.tdblues.com/?p=1588#comments
(c) Shein Die
THESE WALLS TALK: =) www.southernspaces.org/2006/inside-poor-monkeys
Hanningtons was a department store located in a central position in Brighton with an unbroken history of trading for nearly 200 years until its closure in 2001. This beautiful mural remains as a reminder.
Getting rowdy with NSTE and ZIEG on this freezing day at the wall. Talk about change of climate, it was as if it was winter again, but we had fun. Looking like straight wizards showing the boys how the men get down NH. New Hamp.
Un altro vicolo più interno di Antibes. Qui il mare può solo bisbigliarti nelle orecchie, non lo puoi vedere attraverso questo quadrilatero di mura medioevali, ma lo percepisci, il suono trasportato dal vento. Adoro questo vicolo, contentissima di esser passata di lì. I muri parlano di un passato che è ancora "presente".
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Another corner more inner Antibes. Here the sea can only whisper in your ears, you can't see it behind this quad of medieval walls, but you feel it, the sound transporting by the wind. Love this corner, so happy to pass by. Walls talk to you of past that is still "present".
...got a phone call from the super of the business next to this wall talking about "we can't have guns...or bongs..."
Here is the last wall of 2014. This was painted the day I was going back to France for the holidays. Had my friday off so I called up Storm and we gathered some paint for a quick piece. Upon arriving in a random ruine we bumped into Seth and a chinese calligrapher painting a wall ... talked and chilled for a bit then we hit up another wall all together.
Seth had a funny idea when he found the window pane lying on the floor, we built a mini wall for it to stand on and there we were.
I was on a tight schedule as I had my plane but it was cool. Last of 2014.
Say, you know..
Sometimes it's painful to relive the past
But sometimes you gotta relive the past in order to heal from it..
Kevin Gates
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
Prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I was young when my mama had me
Think I ran away from home 'bout the age of fifteen
Juvenile detention
Talked about behind my back by my family members
H-hurtful feeling bein' the black sheep every family visit
I'll admit it, bein' young, I made some bad decisions
Heart too big, I guess my loyalty got used against me
Learned to focus on myself, now I got tunnel vision
Kicked in my ass when I was down and went through hell to get back
Been to the group homes, I've been on lockdown and I've been upstate
Lived in a few homes, holdin' the block down, movin' this weight
Never spoke on this, they say that I murdered my best friend
It was just business, it wasn't personal, you know how the world is
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
Prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
Get 'em, Gates
I'm 'bout to clear my heart
Stand on the business and ain't ever fold
I got some uncles who killers (For real)
Who baggin' someone who ain't play by the code (Yeah)
My favorite rapper my cousin (Yeah)
I looked up to him ever since we was kids (For real)
Hope that he know that I love him
Guess all good things must come to an end
I know some industry niggas
And they never lived the way I lived
Sayin' I'm anti-social (What?)
I can't make you feel the way I feel (Uh-huh)
Head up high, got great ideas
'Cause I got blackballed and they scared of me
I'll die for you if I care for you
I'ma ride for you, never change up, love
I'm a great friend, I'm just not afraid
And I'ma die for you if I care for you
I'ma ride for you, never change up, love
And I'll admit it, bein' young, I made some bad decisions
Heart too big, that's when my loyalty got used against me
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
Prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
I'm a prisoner in my own mind
I feel like these walls talkin' to me
I feel like these walls talkin' to me (in my own mind)
Grand Ave near McKinley St. Several blocks of historic Grand Ave have become an arts district.
Phoenix, Arizona, USA
Young Heroes Vol 1 - Issue #1 "Hello"
Vega: "Hello?"
*The thug turns around alarmed and raises his gun only to be sucker punched by the woman, his eyes roll in the back of his head as he falls on his back. The woman sprints off quietly flipping over the wall talking to herself.*
Vega: "Wassup? No, too formal."
*She glides gracefully through the air gently flapping her winged ankles and wraps her legs around an unsuspecting thugs neck. She nimbly falls over him and swings her legs slamming him down into the ground. He reaches for his gun but she delivers a swift kick to his cheek knocking him out and proceeds to dust herself off. She then begins to parkour her way up the corner of the building and swings from the fire escape smashing through a window. A grroup of thugs cry out in protest as she combat rolls into the centre of the room.*
Vega: "Hi?"
*The thugs looks at her perplexed and immediately fire their guns at her, the woman becomes a blur as she dodges the bullets with ease and darts towards her next target. The thugs eyes widen as she jumps, striking her knee off his face knocking him out. A hail of bullets rain towards her but she's already zipped her way behind one of the thugs grabbing him by the hair, he turns his head as she smashes his face through the glass table. She narrowly avoids a few bullets that whiz past her head and runs at the last thug, coming to a skidding stop. He stares at his gun hearing the empty click and locks eyes with the woman who disarms him effortlessly.*
Vega: "Greetings? No, that just sounds weird."
*The thug frowns confused then turns slightly trying to make a break for it through the door but the woman throws his gun which smacks off the back of his head making him slump against the door groaning.*
Vega: "Ma'am, your input would be much appreciated on how to formally greet the team."
Mrs. Mercedes (through comm): "Vega, don't worry about it. Are the 'Clown Crew' dealt with?"
*Vega looks around the room at the fallen thugs and activates her lenses to X-Ray vision seeing through the foundation of the walls revealing nobody.*
Vega: "Yes Ma'am, all clear."
Mrs. Mercedes (through comm): "Well done Vega, now proceed to the Young Heroes enrolment. The team is eager to meet their leader."
The one-room churches are holy little places. Not for their services or sermons, but for that quiet and echo they offer on a long and lonely day. I've spent hours upon hours within these walls, took every friend I've had to visit, and went many times with my wife. Never for an event or anything social, but just to sit and soak in the silence, to absorb the memories abandoned over the years. It absolutely broke my heart when they replaced the lock, and cut out connection to a very real sanctuary.
That accessible emptiness was deeply significant, a place to get lost from time and pace. I recorded poems here, watched the sunset sinking on the far wall, talked with good folks, settled in and got closer to everything I'd ever hoped to believe. Locking these places up is a sin, they belong to the hearts and souls that surround them. A bolted door on a country church says you've given up on your neighbors, chosen fear over love. We could all spout a cynical line about petty crime, paranoia and dashed expectations, but when it comes to people, it's a risk we take – you've got to have faith. What could matter more than that?
December 13, 2018
St. Croix Cove, Nova Scotia
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A woman with a giant flaming axe....it couldn’t really get any better. Maybe that’s why I’ve haven’t encountered the person in charge with a high powerset. Just because she's the niece of our most terrifying enemy, we should never underestimate how far this can go. But the presence is frightening to say the least.
Just about right now, I pictured myself throwing rays of light against Fireflare. That's right, it's her villain name. Before I could finish the sentence in my head, she probably sliced one of my favourite guns in half....damnit. I check my virtual watch and it’s been 15 minutes already. Time is always the most vital to spies, regardless if it's a fight or not. Then you have your own team occupied against the weird guy who mumbles in third person. Joint assault on both fronts.
Here's the plan, mentally: if we beat them and gave them a 5 minute interrogation—which has been the shortest amount of time I used to choke info out of enemies, then we’d reach some compromise for the end goals. But it doesn't matter. You know you're already pinned down.
Sabine: “Ready to give up yet?”
Kieran: “No you give up.”
Sabine: “Classy. I like you already.”
Kieran: “Sorry I’m taken. She probably has more temper than you. You're the worst nightmare I'd ever encounter in junior high.”
Sabine: “Aw, what a mood killer. Shame I couldn't see what bitch she would be.”
Kurt: “Don’t forget I’m the single one here. No one can or ever take me!”
Sabine: “I’ll deal with the old man in a bit. But yes, I'm gladly to capture you for my uncle....”
Kieran: “Tell me, how many have you even captured ever since he killed one of us?”
Sabine: “Hm, a few maybe. Only if you’re gonna learn to play nice....”
Kieran: “No, no like that. Did you raid our compounds? Why?”
Sabine: “Yes. I ensured a big bloodbath. Some of them left with a trace behind. So that you could be led to this moment of confrontation.”
I felt my anger swelling, drops of sweat rising up to my face. She was obviously stalling us. Everyone does that. To calm my pressured state, I kept thinking about my girlfriend. Something that would be the best meditation technique that Gary gave good lessons on. Being with her long enough, Riley was always reckless despite her powerful skill sets....and the doctor. I did regret a bit leaving them behind when Ty knows it’s his responsibility to keep the mission going. But if anyone can handle a good fight with swords, it shouldn't be a big problem.
Just as our odds were slightly tilting to the losing side, Lyra was constantly launching a flurry of attacks against Knifenight. Presumably under her damaged suit, she’d taken a few hits but with quick regeneration. The absorption of her abilities are simply amazing just like the day we found her. And Kurt, despite his age (and probably still has a six pack from all that prison time), was no stranger to using defenses as a weapon. His hands brimmed with rearranging molecules, launched a shot at Knifenight, send him flying across the wall. Again, also never underestimate what your allies can do even if there are powers that seem weaker at hand.
What remains are two remaining members of the other team, Ty and Erin—-who happened to coordinate a very (beautiful) energy attack. I could see how much they cared for each other. Love is back on the tables? You’d better figure that out yourself.
Ty: “You good?”
Erin: “Yeah.”
Ty: “Show’s not over yet. We gotta help him out.”
Kieran: “Yes, I'd appreciate hand here.”
Sabine: “This is even better. Aiding the third wheel....how sweet.”
Kieran: “Ok that’s enough!”
I charge myself up, glowing like a firefly. Beams protrude out of my body as I create a heavy gun and some swords in the form of light. Rackham is stifled, but she’s not entirely surprised. With her axe, she manages to cut down some of them, but I keep exposing her to my rays, blinding her in a flash as Ty and Erin pin her to a damaged wall. Talk about timing correctly.
Sabine: “Heh....so I’ve definitely underestimated some of you. Good tricks, but you should have known to impress me more.”
Kieran: “Yeah you did. Might have it easy on this one. Now f*cking tell me where he is.”
Sabine: “Why should I tell you? The first rule of interrogation, is never ask where.”
Kieran: “I want you to lead us to him, or else I’ll kill him.”
Sabine: “Do what you want. As long as you know you’re walking into that trap....don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Kieran: “Show me. You said you to take us in right? We're using it exactly just as he wants.”
Sabine: *coughs* “Of course....look at the damn hologram. Cyprus.”
And then I knocked her brains out. I quickly take my mask off for a fresh breath of air, as the others stare at me. I give them a what look before they all cheer.
Lyra: *squeals* “Damn boss. That was impressive. I’ve never seen that before!”
Kurt: “I guess it’s time to check on my research for power levels...well, who wants to get their soda on the jet before I upgrade the tech later?”
Ty: “Provably soon when we depart, hahaha...”
Erin: “So guys, do we need a compost bag or no?”
Kieran: "There is certainly a mess here, but let's just clean up real quick and get the hell outta here.
***
(London to Cyprus, current time 3:43 A.M:)
After destroying what's left behind with an unconscious Sabine and Knifeknight in toll, strapped and cuffed. Our jet arrives quickly at the foretold base. I assume Edens or Gardner know we've managed to handle the situation back underground. En route, Erin and Kurt have already send them the coordinates. Knowing his defection situation, Gardner should definitely coming along in person as well, obviously for many other reasons too.
Landing seems obviously smooth if it’s a super-villain-or-whoever’s island that is. There’s not security breach, not a single guard. I’m raising my suspicion level alerts to high in case it’s an ambush....which is possible. We all switch on the night vision gear again, this time with Kurt providing the heat sensors and grid scans. The door is just right up another tunnel, as we enter....
It’s a big facility, something like that. Some dark shades of green around. Still, no guards...until a figure emerges. Lights flare up as well. Gotta keep caution.
Holy f**k. It’s North. I haven’t really seen his face clearly before, even through the files, but I can clearly make it out that it’s him. His damn face staring right at us above. I witness the other entrance is led by Edens and his team, along with a cloaked guy who they told me is an ally named Dusksmoke.
North: “Hello, knights. It is time—-and I welcome you all to this grand meeting. The truly wonderful spectacle of my most wanted. The teams that are capable of the survival of the fittest.”
Edens: “Here you are.”
Gardner: “F**king hell. Why don’t you come down from that box of yours and answer me!”
North: “Oh yes. You brought me this muddled spectacle....”
Ty: “Wake up, both of you.”
(Sabine and Knifenight are thrown into the middle, still bound and tied with electrocuted ropes.)
Sabine: *wakes* “Ah, see, I told you....”
Knifenight: “Uggh....yes. It is him. But, Knifenight....Knifenight is not supposed to be here!”
North: “Once again, I will deal with this fool later. Now, show them.”
Even more lights flare up around us as we ready our battle stances. The White Ninja steps out, followed by the ES agents all around him. Then he snaps his fingers, revealing my girlfriend and Sam tied on a platform. They look battered and torn, yet not hurt enough badly.
North: “I have your friends. You already have guts to step into my lair, give me what I need.”
Gardner: “Free them. Now.”
North: “You should really learn to play nice, Mason. I don't trade if you threaten me with this behaviour...”
Edens: “You mean the plans. The rest to kill us. You’re the Modred to our cause.”
North: “Ahh yes. And you would be the Merlin on the chess board, Remus. Just another disposable old wizard. And Arthur here—-isn’t what I would expect too much more of a king....look at you being frail and sickly, Mason.”
Gardner: “Pulling the sword is when I should finally get to kill the worst f**ker ever. I know you wanted to cleanse the world, to get rid of us. Then why not do it now.”
North: “Oh yes. But it would be a waste to blow up too much more faculties and incompetent human beings. I enjoy the slow, painful death of a man....like how I always toyed with yours. Now my patience has run thin. Kill them. All of them.”
Well, sh*t. I guess we can’t leave without stains then...
Spruce Grouse trying to get inside. Way back we decided on 4mm Glass for the outside pane because of our kids playing ball around the home, but never figured birds would be more dangerous. They have broken four windows in the past and broken the seal on a few more.
We tried with predator silhouettes, but they don't work on grouse. These chickens fly like torpedoes or bombs with their short wings. We even had some crashing into the outside walls.
Talk about bird brain.
I was walking down a street known to locals as the street of thirst due to the number of bars there, once lively, now rather quiet. There were a few people enjoying a drink and I spied Julien leaning a wall, talking to a friend of his. His nonchalance and the fact that simply being able to enjoy a drink has become something out of the ordinary was something I wanted to capture. Julien agreed to take part in my 100 strangers project and I wanted to take a portrait of him just as he was when I saw him, hoping to capture his confidence.
Julien is a waiter in a restaurant created by a renowned local chef. Because of Covid-19, most restaurants in France are closed, some still cook takeaways but none serve food on the premises anymore. At the moment, Julien is partially unemployed, and only receives about 75% of his wages which makes life more difficult for him but he found a silver lining: “At least I got time to have a drink with my friends.”
In hindsight, I should have asked Julien to stand further from the wall he was leaning on so as to get a little more separation. I should also have asked him to turn his head more towards the light. Both things I will try to keep in mind for future strangers.
Thank you very much Julien!
This picture is #9 in my 100 strangers project. Find out more about the project and see pictures taken by other photographers at the 100 Strangers Flickr Group page
This is my 4th submission to the Human Family Group. To view more street portraits and stories visit The Human Family Flickr Group page
Je descendais la rue de la soif, devenue depuis plusieurs mois tellement calme, quand j’ai remarqué Julien appuyé contre un mur, en train de boire un verre avec un ami à lui. Sa nonchalance et le fait qu’il soit en train de prendre un verre, debout dans la rue plutôt que confortablement installé à la terrace d’un café, mais tout de même en train de prendre un verre, m’ont incité à l’aborder. Je voulais faire un portrait de lui, exactement comme je l’avais remarqué, espérant capturer son assurance.
Julien est serveur dans un restaurant d’un chef caennais renommé. Avec le Covid-19, la plupart des restaurants sont fermés, ceux qui sont ouverts font de la vente à emporter, aucun ou presque ne sert sur place. De ce fait, Julien est en chômage partiel, il reçoit environ 75% de son salaire. Julien voit cependant le bon côté des choses: “Au moins, j’ai le temps de boire un coup avec mes potes.”
Il y a plusieurs choses que j’aurais du faire différemment, notamment demander à Julien de se tenir moins près du mur pour que l’arrière plan soit moins distrayant. J’aurais également du lui demander de se tourner plus vers la lumière. Deux choses que je vais tenter de garder à l’esprit pour mes prochains inconnus.
Merci beaucoup Julien!
Cette photo est la #9 dans mon projet 100 strangers. Apprenez-en plus au sujet du projet et visionnez les photos prises par d’autres photographes sur la page Flickr du groupe 100 Strangers
C’est ma quatrième participation au groupe The Human Family. Pour voir plus de portraits de rue et d’histoires, visitez la page Flickr du groupe The Human Family
This is your event graff Walls Talk in Sabadell as the town hall have left after placing just ahead a recycling container glass
"sometimes the walls talk back to me
they seem to say .......
wasn't yesterday a better day "
-McKuen
East Village,
Manhattan,
Photography’s new conscience
From the start, Buster worked hard to prove that he's a graffiti artist, not some little hoodlum with a sneer on his face, paint stains on his fingers, and a can under his jean jacket. Buster is the nom de plume, or perhaps more correctly, the nom de guerre of Jesse Ortiz, 22; he carries a business card and an album full of photos of his art work, including the abstract mural he painted for the San Diego Automotive Museum in Balboa Park and the logos he completed for a local Top 40 radio station. Still, he gets little respect from cops and security guards. Truth is, Buster will always value the walls of a building more for their size and texture, their ability to serve as blank slates for his imagination, than for anything that could possibly be inside them. Last December, a security guard tried to chase him away from what he and other graffiti artists refer to as the California Street walls, near the Santa Fe railroad tracks, just north of downtown San Diego. "I go, 'What do you want?'" Buster says he asked the guard. "He goes, 'What are you, some kind of punk? You think you're a badass trying to mess with me?'"
Actually, Buster had permission to paint at the site. He'd met late last summer with the manager of Cousins Warehouse, just east of the railroad tracks, and showed him his portfolio and asked if he could practice his art on the massive retaining wall behind the store parking lot. The manager gave his approval warily— and only to Buster. But soon a whole flock of young graffiti artists and hangers-on were gathering at the site, turning the wall behind Cousins, as well as the back wall of Southwest Safety and Supply, on the west side of the tracks, facing Cousins, into a riot of color and design. Some called it art. Others just called it trouble, big-time.
Eventually, almost every square inch of the two walls was covered with spray paint— an imprecise medium, to be sure, but one whose practitioners take great pride in the precise drawings they are able to create. It's all a matter of can control, they say. The walls drew curious onlookers and photographers, who cautiously stepped out of their cars to see the urban art work: simple cartoon characters, outlined in bold, dark lines; black-and-white portraits of singer/dancer Paula Abdul and of a female bodybuilder; the torso of a robot; big block letters filled with colors that fade into each other; a sinister creature clutching the strings of a marionette; examples of the often-illegible interconnecting letters once known as wildstyle; and other samples of the New York graffiti style that West Coast kids have been imitating for more than a decade.
And the graffiti was not confined to the two walls, each of which measures more than 250 feet long. It was scrawled over dumpsters, over two long-forgotten refrigerators lying on the ground and filled with empty spray cans (their nozzles removed to keep younger kids from spraying the leftover paint on the walls). A silhouette of a human figure was painted on the cracked concrete lot, where more graffiti spread like a rash in every direction. Spaghetti noodles of color stretched across an abandoned Plymouth, covering even its broken windows, its four flat tires.
Buster was the pioneering artist at the California Street walls, but that doesn't mean he's ever been king of the walls. That distinction was earned a few months ago by Sake (pronounced like the Japanese beverage). Sake is the nickname used by the leader of a graffiti art crew named No Suckers Allowed. The crew has another name too: 594— the California Penal Code section dealing with vandalism. Sake says he was first caught in the act of vandalism five or six years ago when he and a couple of friends were chased out of a school yard as they were spray-painting the outline for their piece (as in "masterpiece") onto a wall. To this day, Sake believes the man who chased them must have been a ghost because of his great speed and because the man was listening to a transistor radio tuned to what seemed to be a Padre game— at midnight. "You could just see his silhouette," says Sake. "It was really weird."
Sake is now 20. He wears three gold hoops in one ear; his curly hair is cropped short, except for the braided tail that rests on the back of his gold turtleneck. As of last fall, Sake confined most of his wall art to the California Street walls, the place where he earned the title of king by battling the former king, Quasar. Insiders know that a battle is a contest to determine which spray-paint artist can create the best piece. And they know that a tagger is a young wannabe artist who scrawls his name everywhere (on buses, electrical boxes, fences, storefronts) to get up, be recognized. They know a toy is an unskilled amateur— not really an artist at all— and that a sucker, the lowest of all earth crawlers, destroys artists' pieces or fraudulently claims others' pieces as his own work by signing his name to them. They know "who can rock the walls," as one artist describes it, and what it takes to be king.
In his battle against Quasar, Sake painted a giant jack-in-the-box. The Q on the front of the box left no doubt that the toy was Quasar. In the background, Sake painted a gray castle and in the foreground a handful of bright red, blue, and yellow children's play blocks. Quasar painted "San Diego King" in highly stylized, interconnecting letters for his battle piece. But he quickly conceded that Sake had won with his impressive mural.
Quasar, who spends 40 hours a week cooking meals at Children's Hospital and most of his free time spray-painting walls, always figured he'd have to relinquish his title someday. Quasar is 23, the self-described old man of local graffiti artists, and he says it's only natural that the work of older artists will continue to be superseded by that of younger ones at the walls, "if society doesn't kick us out of here."
Sake, though, resents any suggestion that graffiti art is just for kids. "Aerosol art is like a disease," he says. "Once you start, you can't stop. I'll be doing this art form probably till the day I die." Expecting him to quit at the threshold of adulthood is "like telling Gauguin to stop [painting] when he's 40. That's bull."
Last summer, shortly after Buster started painting the wall behind Cousins, store manager Ken Bond was approached by police who asked if the store wished to press charges against the spray-paint vandal or vandals at work there. "We gave the authorization to a Mister Ortiz to do nice murals," Bond told police. But he was alarmed at the growing number of youths who had joined Buster since last summer. "I don't like the direction it's going," said Bond ominously. "At this point, I'm not seeing what I would consider art or something that would enhance a wall."
And a few days after Bond made those comments, and as Sake and Quasar and about a half-dozen other guys stood around, casually surveying the Southwest Safety and Supply wall, a well-dressed man emerged from Cousins. The man called across the railroad tracks to the artists, asking if Jesse Ortiz was present. No, he was told; he asked them to have Ortiz contact him and left. "Well, there goes the wall," said one of the youths. "Doesn't look good," warned Sake. They worried out loud whether the manager meant to take the Cousins wall away from them. After all, police had visited the site the previous weekend, after one kid threw a cap from a spray can at a passing train. "I don't think he'll take it away," said one bear of a kid, "'cause he knows what the consequences will be." The artists and their entourage of taggers and assorted other followers knew they had a good deal going here, and they did not wish to lose these two walls they'd taken by storm.
Graffiti art has long been associated with trains; in New York, early writers filled subway trains and tunnels with their art. Buster talks fondly of the time several years ago when Crayone, a well-known L.A. graffiti artist, came to San Diego. Together they painted the boxcars of freight trains that passed through town, hiding under the stopped trains when watchmen emerged, swinging lamps. The California Street walls held romance, at least for these youths, a romance enhanced by the Amtraks and freights that regularly pass between the two walls.
Buster, a loner who eschews membership in a graffiti crew, would have been content to keep the Cousins wall to himself, though that proved impossible. Buster says he tries to not even let other artists' styles influence his work, though some of the other young artists talk behind his back and claim that he bites (steals) some of his ideas for murals and lettering styles from others.
Fred Brousse, owner of Southwest Safety and Supply, was also alarmed by the graffiti art that appeared about three months ago on the back of his building— without his permission. When he confronted the youths at the time, he warned them he'd call police and hire a security guard if he discovered tagging anywhere on his building but the back wall.
So Buster stenciled "No Tagging Please" onto the sides of Brousse's building. He didn't have enough paint to cover over the tags that already blemished the sides of the building, so in some cases, he sprayed the warning right over the tags. Brousse was impressed by Buster's efforts and by some of the art work. "For the time being, I'm turning the other cheek," he said at the time. "They're not into destroying property. They're looking for a place to express themselves, really. They're out there with respirators [protective masks] on and the whole business," Brousse said, affably. "It's very interesting to me; they'll come in and paint something, and you'll figure it's gonna stay there. Strangely enough, someone comes in and paints right over it."
But the graffiti artists understand that transience is the flip side of the spontaneity inherent in much of their art. Buster explains: "It's part of the wall life. When I paint on that wall, I know I'm gonna be gone over sometime. If they can do better than me, if they can do a better piece, then go ahead and go over me. As long as it's good."
In late February, one of the murals on Cousins' wall depicted the span of a freeway bridge; its pillars were 3-D letters spelling out "Buster," painted with grays and blues to look like cracking cement. Street lamps painted into the piece shed a plum glow, and a full moon completed the scene. Buster has a photo of the piece, but the bridge mural itself was history less than two weeks later.
Members of Wall Power Crew painted over it with a large "WPC"— a throw-up— a simple one-color design inside a dark outline. WPC didn't even bother to finish the throw-up. The destruction of his elaborate work stung Buster. "When I'm gone over the way they did it, that hurts me. They just did a little one-color piece. I thought they were going to do a top-to-bottom, side-to-side piece. They up. It makes them look bad."
Why'd they do it? Them guys, they heard you were coming, so they went over me," Buster said. "They did it out of jealousy because I had some stuff up."
"It's not fair for that guy Buster's stuff to stay here forever," retorted 15-year-old Dyze of WPC. "He ain't great. He bites most of his stuff."
But even Sake was critical of WPC's deed. "That's just a throw-up," he sniffed. "It looks trashy."
All that remained of the bridge mural was the dedication Buster had included: "To Julia, my aerosol heart, from your father, 1990."
Julia, Buster's two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, figures prominently in other wall art. Late one afternoon, Buster climbed into his primer-gray '66 VW bug to take a look at an illegal wall he's painted, illegal since he never gained permission to paint on it. Julia's photo, enclosed in a red plastic heart, is attached to the dash. The VW rides low to the ground, and Buster drove very slowly over the railroad tracks, car metal scraping track metal every inch of the way. Heading toward Old Town, following the line of the railroad tracks, Buster says he knows of two San Diego girls who are writers, as graffiti artists call themselves. One goes by the name of Pastel, he says, adding, "She's pretty good. She could take out some of the toys. L.A.'s got some good girls [graffiti artists]. I want to see some good girls getting up."
Buster stopped the car where the railroad tracks meet the juncture of freeways 5 and 8. The name Julia is painted in big chrome-blue letters on a six-foot-high retaining wall behind a motel. There's also a big red heart with the words "Happy Valentine's Day Julia." Twice while painting that wall, Buster recalls, police drove up, in a San Diego squad car and a state police car. Neither officer approached him or spoke, but both watched him intently.
Buster was standing a few feet from his Old Town wall, talking. A wool beret, stiff with a coat of black paint, rested atop his head. He wore a jean jacket; on the back, he had air-brushed a lifelike portrait of LaToya Jackson. On one sleeve is painted "CAP," the tag for the originator of throw-ups. His jeans were splattered with paint, and he wore one gold hoop earring.
Buster said his dad once worked as a sign painter and drew Disney characters in his spare time. But his dad now lives in a convalescent home; ten years ago he collapsed in the backyard while gardening. A stroke left him paralyzed on the right side. Buster and his mom tried to care for his dad at home for a few months, but the work proved too hard for the two of them. Buster once filled his dad's room at the convalescent home with his own paintings, but all of them, he said, were later stolen.
Buster and his mom live in the same modest Linda Vista home where the family's always lived. The two interests that dominate Buster's life are evident in his room. His own canvases cover the walls, including an African-mask-like self-portrait, the face half yellow, half black and linked by full, red lips. A drawing table and coffee cans full of colored markers are in one corner. A Fisher-Price stove set, a doll in a stroller, and other toys take up most of one wall. Photos of Julia all around. Julia spends three days a week with Buster and the rest of the time with her mom, Buster's former girlfriend, who lives down the street from him.
Out back there's a rusting Chevy and a shed where Buster keeps the protective masks he wears while painting walls, as well as his paints, a sport jacket that looks as if it could stand up alone, it's so stiff with bright smears of acrylic paint. A chalkboard hangs inside the shed. "When writers come over, I don't want them tagging up my buildings," says Buster.
Behind a cluster of auto shops a few blocks from his home, Buster has painted what graffiti artists call a permission wall. A prehistoric bird appears ready to dive from a tower at the edge of a cliff that's dripping with vines. A prince riding a huge white rat is poised to rescue a damsel held in the clutches of a genie who's materialized from a gold lamp. There's a green Medusa crawling with snakes, words reading, "Why have a dream if you can't live your dream? Only you can make it happen." Also "San Diego" in orange-and-brown, interconnecting graffiti letters, bisected by a character with Mr. Spock's ears. But someone has scrawled "LVC" over the word "Diego," and the garage door next to Buster's art work is littered with Linda Vista Crips' scrawls. "They just trashed it," complained Buster, who vows to paint over the gang graffiti.
There's plenty of chest-thumping, survival-of-the-fittest, boys-who-would-be-king rivalry among local graffiti writers. But if there's one thing they all agree on, it's that society has wrongly pegged them as gang members and equated their elaborate designs with the careless scrawls of gangsters staking out turf.
"So many people stereotype us because of our medium,"' complains Daze, one of Sake's crew members. "Man, I'm so against gangs and drugs and stuff." (Both Sake and Daze are members of the Guardian Angels.) "It makes me so upset to have someone claim they're a graffiti artist and they're in gangs," Daze continues. Sake openly ridicules the names gangsters choose for themselves. "To be called Goofy or Lazy...sounds like people from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," he says. "Writers— they have real cool names, like Dash. They're harder." He prefers the nicknames like Buster, Daze, Dyze, Quasar, Nex, Kers (as in "curse"), Zodak, Romeo, Clash, Crush, Vapor, Scae, Fire, Lost, and Penguin, and the names of the others who frequented the California Street walls.
And the writers always try to restrict their battles to the walls. Recently, there was a standoff at the railroad tracks between Daze and another member of No Suckers Allowed and the Underworld Kings. One guy claimed he could paint a piece far superior to the other guy's. Then one guy was accusing the other of making fun of the way he talks. Soon, one side was challenging the other to a fight. "Daze goes, 'No man, I don't fight,'" says Buster. "He goes, 'I just "piece."'" Daze's version of events is similar. "If you wanna go against me," he told his opponents of the moment, "we'll just paint.... I wish everything could be settled that way."
"We had to break it up," says Buster, who says he warned the others, "If you guys fight, everyone thinks that when it's time to battle, that's what it's going to lead to, fighting. They all agreed and said, 'You're right, you're right.'"
Romeo, given his tag by his brother Picasso, is leader of the Underworld Kings. Like a lot of kids who are part of the hip-hop culture of rap music and graffiti, a culture that in past years included break dancing, Romeo wears his hair short on the sides and top and long in back. Anyone who has taken the trolley out of downtown has probably seen a mural painted by Romeo and a friend last year on a small grocery at 12th Avenue and Market Street. Interconnecting letters filled with swirls of color and outlined in a shade called true blue, spelling out "San Diego." A palm tree, a boy character, skyscrapers, the words "No Toys."
On a quick tour, Romeo and two of his friends point out two graffiti walls: the Euclid Avenue trolley station, completed by Quasar and some buddies in '86 with a commission from the Metropolitan Transit Development Board, whose directors wisely figured permission walls would earn respect of youths who might otherwise deface the station with unsightly graffiti; and an unsupervised, free-for-all graffiti wall called "the pit," just east of the trolley station. The pit is nearly a block long and, in sharp contrast to the organized series of murals at the trolley station, is full of spontaneous throw-ups, slogans, and characters. "This one's 4 all U punks who sell out your own crew! Suckers! Sayin' peace to my real homies," reads one that lists Case, Sok, Shok, Terock, and Spy, presumably as the homies.
"Personally, I think Romeo's better 'n Sake," confides Lost, whose teeth are swaddled in braces, as they leave the pit. "It's just that Romeo has trouble sometimes getting paint. But he's more creative."
In front of Romeo's home in Logan Heights, there's a retaining wall filled end-to-end with blue-and-pink letters spelling "Memories," complete with painted-on starbursts of reflected light. Romeo dedicated the piece to an 18-year-old girl who had lived on his block and who died in a car crash last December.
Romeo, 16, a student who buses to Point Loma High to avoid the gangsters in his own neighborhood, is asked the inevitable "Whatdyawannabewhenyougrowup?"
"I want to work in real estate," he says. Not art, not graphics. Real estate. "This is just my hobby, and I want to take it to the limit." But, says Romeo, "I just don't want to live how I live now. I want to live different."
In contrast, Buster definitely wants to make it in the art world (after he becomes king locally, that is; he thinks Sake and Quasar should battle again and that he should take on the winner). Next to his genie-and-white-rat piece, Buster painted his true name, Jesse Ortiz, his home phone number, and two others where messages can be left for him. One number will reach the Centro Cultural de la Raza in Balboa Park. Centro director Victor Ochoa notes that very few graffiti artists will ever make a living at their art, but Ochoa holds workshops for the kids, urges them to wear masks to avoid the toxic fumes from spray paint. And he's got the connections Buster needs; Ochoa has helped the younger artist land several art commissions. Buster also has made a friend of graffiti guru James Prigoff, co-author of Spray Can Art, and regularly sends the Sacramento author and photographer photos of his own pieces. "I really feel strong about my art, and I don't want to let it go," Buster says. "I'm looking at my future. Should I stick to what I want to do, or should I go out and get a job?" Buster doesn't have a high school diploma. He was kicked out his senior year because he skipped school too much. And he doesn't know if it's worth his while to go back for the diploma.
While at his house, he takes his beret off for the first time, and it's suddenly clear why he wears the hat so often. Vestiges of a mohawk, growing out. Ah, adulthood, paths chosen, haircuts abandoned. "I can't walk into Target and get my film developed with a mohawk!" he says, incredulous that anyone should even ask why he hides his skull.
Buster worries there aren't enough serious graffiti artists in town. "You got a lot of people in these crews that say they're graffiti artists. They get their name tagged right along with yours. All they are is just taggers, someone that just hangs with a crew.... I don't like to waste my paint on tagging."
Zodak, the 15-year-old artist who painted the monster with the marionette at the California Street walls, was out tagging along G Street with some friends earlier this month and was busted at about 11:30 p.m. for violating curfew. But the cops didn't take away the kids' markers. Zodak's artwork, including an impressive sketchbook, full of muscled bodies and a wide range of lettering styles, seems to show the makings of a graffiti king.
Tagging is what younger writers do to get up, to be noticed. "That's how you establish yourself," says Daze, 20, who attends Southwestern College full-time and takes care of kids part-time in a latchkey child-care program. But tagging is done less and less with age, partly because most kids are savvy enough to know that once they're 18, any new criminal convictions become part of the public record. One writer, who still tags occasionally, especially when he's angry about something, says, "Really, vandalism is no great crime. You could tag your name a thousand times, and when you're caught, you're caught for only that one tag. If they try and make you pay for all [past vandalism acts], they can't do that, because that's the way the law is."
Two years ago, Sake says, he dropped out of high school after getting in trouble for a graffiti spree that caused extensive damage to San Diego sanitation trucks. Sake claims, with a straight face, that he went along with his friends to the city yard but didn't do any tagging. When the spree made the TV news, Sake says, "Teachers were like looking at me all screwed up. I just
dropped out 'cause I couldn't take the people there. They'd look at me like 'you scum' 'cause I do aerosol art— I don't like to use [the term] graffiti art."
After he dropped out, Sake says he spent his time tagging everywhere his paint and markers found a flat surface. "That's all I did. I didn't work. I racked [stole] my paint."
But lately he's been making payments to his mom for the shiny black '82 Mazda she bought for him. He works 40 hours a week as a "maintenance artist," he laughs, tending the grounds of a church in Casa de Oro. When a writer tagged the church building, says Sake, "I told him not to do it anymore, because I work there. I was like, 'Damn, now I gotta clean it up.'"
Sake plans to get his high school diploma. He wants to be a cop, like his older sister, a San Diego police officer. "She's real tough and stuff. People respect her."
As a cop, he'd have to bust young graffiti artists, no? "That's true, but it's a job.... That's what's sad about this art form. To get good, you have to do it illegally. I didn't have a place like this [the California Street walls]. I had to go out and risk getting caught every night."
Buster didn't do it. Sake didn't do it. Neither, apparently, did any of the regular artists who worked the California Street walls. It wouldn't have made sense for any of them to do it; they all knew the price they'd pay. Fred Brousse, the owner of Southwest Safety and Supply, had said he was turning the other cheek, allowing the artists to paint the rear wall of his building. Well, in early March some vandals spray-painted that cheek. The vandals tagged all around that building. They also sloppily scrawled names like "FTL" (Fuck The Law), "Arnell," and "Filipino Prides" all over three of Cousins' trucks and, according to Cousins' manager, jump-started one of the trucks and rammed it into a wall. They also smeared graffiti on several nearby businesses the same night. Their handiwork caused several thousands of dollars in damage and brought the curtain down on the California Street walls.
"I have changed 180 degrees," said Fred Brousse, angrily. Owners of half a dozen businesses in the area got together and planned their counterattack, and they have more paint than the vandals. The graffiti-busters painted a two-foot-wide, light-yellow swath the full length of both the Cousins wall and the back of the Southwest Safety and Supply building. "No more!" they painted below the swath on Southwest's building. A few days later, the graffiti art work was completely obliterated with a fresh coat of paint.
The businesses pooled resources and hired security guard to keep any graffiti — art or anything less— off the walls. "I'm out to stop 'em," swore Brousse. "If I have to arrest them I'll arrest them. If I have to prosecute them, I'll prosecute them."
Buster, accompanied by Julia, went to talk with Brousse, promising he'd clean up all the tagging damage if they'd let him continue to paint. All to no avail. "Unfortunately, everyone has to be penalized because of the bad guys," fumes Brousse. "It just had to come to a screeching halt."
Sake and Daze face other problems in addition to the loss of their much-loved walls. They were among six Guardian Angels arrested March 15 at Ninth and F, downtown, in an incident in which police say the Angels overstepped their bounds. The Angels confronted two men they suspected of narcotics activity. The two men, in turn, accused the youths of handcuffing them and generally roughing them up and placed the Angels under citizens' arrest.
"I got more hurt than they did," says Sake of the two men he says were smoking crack when the Angels appeared.
With the sounds of Yo! MTV Raps drifting over the phone line, Sake says that he doesn't personally know the youths who vandalized the Cousins and Southwest properties. But, he says, "They're just taggers. They're lower than taggers. They were really stupid. They didn't know what we could lose. That was the only legal wall we had in San Diego County. Everyone's all, 'Where we gonna go?'"
And Buster, he still has his Old Town wall to paint on and is actively searching for more wall space elsewhere. He too belittles the vandals by labeling them as taggers and says, "They don't understand what the art's all about."
-- Jackie McGrath