So last night I was privy to a bit of lore heretofore a mystery to me: how does all that graffiti — excuse me, street art — happen? When do such luminaries as Neckface find the opportunity to execute their craft? Well, if you are walking past 240 E 2nd Street at around 11:05 PM on a Monday night, you might see an rather uninteresting looking punk leaving his tag on the front of the building. I have long since given up on deciphering tags, so it looks like ‘WISPHERS’ to me. Something like that. And if you are the sort who tags a building early enough in the evening to have a middle-aged blogger catch you, you probably drive to the East Village in your parent’s black Range Rover (plate: NY BVN 5161), and then race off, your revolutionary act of resistance complete.
I used to think that my derisive comments to the effect that most of what passes for, I dunno, visual anarchy, is a bunch of people who think Mark Ecko is some sort of avatar of antithetical culture (but is really just a whiner, begging a judge to protect his lastest PR gimmick, all of it supported by the unwavering fealty of alterna-culture whores everywhere), but really are just a bunch of rich white kids, I used to think that was bitter and dismissive presumption. Turns out, every once in a while, that I am dead on. So, you punk-ass bitches who drive to the East Village to leave entirely tired tags on my neighborhood: whatever. Live the dream. Buy a Tony Hawk videogame or something. Gnarly.
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Fuck you heroes.
So last night I was privy to a bit of lore heretofore a mystery to me: how does all that graffiti — excuse me, street art — happen? When do such luminaries as Neckface find the opportunity to execute their craft? Well, if you are walking past 240 E 2nd Street at around 11:05 PM on a Monday night, you might see an rather uninteresting looking punk leaving his tag on the front of the building. I have long since given up on deciphering tags, so it looks like ‘WISPHERS’ to me. Something like that. And if you are the sort who tags a building early enough in the evening to have a middle-aged blogger catch you, you probably drive to the East Village in your parent’s black Range Rover (plate: NY BVN 5161), and then race off, your revolutionary act of resistance complete.
I used to think that my derisive comments to the effect that most of what passes for, I dunno, visual anarchy, is a bunch of people who think Mark Ecko is some sort of avatar of antithetical culture (but is really just a whiner, begging a judge to protect his lastest PR gimmick, all of it supported by the unwavering fealty of alterna-culture whores everywhere), but really are just a bunch of rich white kids, I used to think that was bitter and dismissive presumption. Turns out, every once in a while, that I am dead on. So, you punk-ass bitches who drive to the East Village to leave entirely tired tags on my neighborhood: whatever. Live the dream. Buy a Tony Hawk videogame or something. Gnarly.