The Berlin chill is down to minus twenty degrees and the inside of my nostrils feels sticky as we grind forward over gravel-strewn ice lumped side walks. It must be three times colder than where I cool my coke. There are only those who really need to be out on the streets and the S-bahn has an extra quality of refuge.
Through the foil scratched windows a desolate freeze flashes by only to flare at passing graffiti’s.
It’s like a city weed, finding it’s way to every conceivable nook and cranny that is flat enough to support a third dimension. It squeezes itself into haphazard configurations and is braved upon cruel precipitations. There is a lot not worth the paint that’s sloppily spilled upon it, but there are rare exciting gems to satisfy the hungry hunting eye.
There is a bio-logic ruling in all this rebel and freedom. The ‘tags’ are short, they max at 5, 6 letters to accommodate space, composition and speed. Often the vowels are missing and evoked by the suggestive power of their consonant allies: SMSH or FLSH. Though almost exclusively English the spelling is often phonetic: KRUSJ. Some letters have faces, many are in three dimensions, they only come in capitals, bold, dynamic, communication overdrive. There is a sanctity in its typical location, outbound of public territory, yet presented in the best of visible focus from train or station repose.
There is a lot of genius, of exquisite and tasty portrayal of our communicative symbols and it no seldom dwarfs the petty pranks of paid for purvey. There is a challenge too in its decrypt, to decipher and determine what has germinated in a dark and desolate hour to a proud outcry of existence only fully savoured by a few intimates. The pressure that pushed out these paints is more than the air castles of its produce. It’s the ever versatile individual spirit, bottled by society and bursting from a spray can.
Check out ‘City weed’ in the photo album.