Always fun walking around the mostly abandoned warehouses. Every few months new graffiti seems to appear. Graffiti is often both obvious and obscure – how many other forms of communication can say that about itself?
Some tags are familiar, others fresh to the eye. Something brave and obstinate in this the oldest form of street art. Why can’t art be both art and vandalism? Maybe more art should aspire to vandalize, at least challenge and provoke conformity. No real testament to Visigoths here. But as in centuries past, an individual break with the social order, the latest iteration of Kilroy was here.
I’m an individual, no matter how illegible or personally referential or ethereal, I am here. I exist. The urban landscape of old concrete, rotting bricks and cracked warehouse windows – the vestige of the industrial past not yet refurnished into condominiums and mix-used projects – a self-proclaimed artist – is there any kind, really? – scrawled a souvenir of a life, evidence some one was here and that some one was I and I needed proof even if that proof be briefly amusing strangers looking at old building while going from one neighborhood to another.
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