Street art

I can see him, tagging his name on walls, scaling fences into train yards to spend hours sucking in paint fumes, the only sounds the shhhh of the aerosol can, the rattle of the Krylon and your own hot breath in your ears. It is a way to leave your mark on the world: proof you were there. An undersized, skinny ghetto mule-atto mixed-up kid who never had enough money to get by. They can’t erase you. Even if they sand blast you off, you’ll come back. Immortality. —Walidah Imarisha, Angels with Dirty Faces, p. 51.

I’m still loving Walidah’s beautiful book. She understands what it is to be someone who never had enough money to get by. Who has been erased. Who seems, on the street, invisible because no one makes eye contact, says hello. You take what you can get.

This blip shows a development on Caleb’s chosen wall. The lower addition is chalk, and it seems to read “Eden, the Poet,” but maybe it is Caleb. Maybe part of the name has been erased. Maybe he has two styles, two identities. Or maybe it is just some other artist who respects Caleb’s art. 

This is momentary immortality for those who don’t have digital cameras and computers with processing software and internet access. Our privilege.