Grafitti

Perhaps none of you know this, perhaps many of you do: There is a graffiti war taking place in Jersey City as we speak. Last night I entered it.

Grafitti is an art form that, like other art forms, arises out of an attempt to speak -- or an attempt to be heard. As an attempt to exist. We make art, write poems, create sculptures because for some reason, we are compelled to create.

Many people have frowned upon my insistence that NO GRAFFITI IS BAD GRAFFITI, even if the text or images are profane, obscene, hateful, or inciteful. (Most grafitti is not the aforementioned -- but when it is, it calls attention to a person that needs embracing, or it is a call to a community to respond with dignity and strength, which, in general, they do.)

Graffiti makers are sometimes artists (as in http://www.graffiti.org/cinci/cinci_16.html), and sometimes graffiti makers are simply people who have something to say. Maybe the painter wants to say "I exist -- and even though no one seems to see me, or care about me -- I still exist and I am going to write my name on this wall to prove it." Maybe the painter wants to say, "I am so angry about X and I have a need to respond to it in a very public way." Maybe the painter chose this medium out of a love for spray paint, or maybe the painter chose it because oil paints (27$ a tube) are three times the price of a good can of spray paint (8$ a can).

Any artist, actor, musician or poet will tell you, "I am a (writer.) I have no choice." This drive to art exists as frequently and as fervently in multi-racial teenagers from "bad neighborhoods" as it does from white girls from Rochester, NY. My artwork (the books I've recently send to many of you) has no greater value than the "BAM" tag on the bridge. I write poems because I cannot stop myself. I am constantly attempting to exist in a public way, or at least in a way that forces other people to acknowledge me. The same is true of the graffiti artist.

Last night I put down my pretension and picked up my paint.

Unlike multi-racial teenagers from "bad neighborhoods," I was never looked at suspiciously by passerbys. No one called the cops on me. Police presence was minimal, and even when I did see a police officer, he didn't slow down and ask me for information (I was being discreet, I didn't spray paint right in front of a cop, I had a great lookout person -- BUT -- the reason the cop didn't stop me was because of my race and my gender, along with the fact that I was in a rich white neighborhood.)

The minute I realized I was going to paint in public (illegally), I had a greater respect for the "BAM" tags hastily written on the bridge.

1. It's scary (even for a white girl) to tag. It's illegal. Cops are super-scary. It takes a certain level of courage. (Especially for a teenager, especially for a teenager of color, especially for any person who has any reason to fear the police, especially for any person who has heard of Sean Bell or Amadou Diallo and empathizes with their particular brand of police terrorism.)

2. Spray paint is a difficult tool to manipulate. You have to shake it to get a good and steady stream, but there's a metal ball inside the can which makes a lot of noise when you shake it, thus calling attention to yourself -- which is scary (see 1.)

3. It leaks all over your hands. Even if you're careful. You have to either wear gloves or get inked. Both have downsides.

4. You can't erase mistakes, and you generally only have a very small window of time to complete your project. Your work has to be precise.

5. It smells. It is highly flammible. The can I was using contains an ingredient which the State of California (or "California") has decided can cause cancer.

The hope is this: Next time you see a piece of graffiti -- stop. Look at it. How big is it? How long did it take to put that there? What does it say? What was the artist trying to say? What was so important that s/he risked arrest or police violence to make that statement? Make a compassionate assumption. Err on the side of understanding.

(even if the person wrote "BITCH" or "Mel is a BITCH" -- allow that uncomfortable moment to explain that the person who wrote it was really mad at mel. Maybe mel is their boss, and denied a promotion. Maybe mel is the lover who broke their trust. Maybe mel is a pseudonym for "how come my mother never loved me?")

peace.
resist.
engage.

Presence: A Collaboration

Presence

photography by Scott LaForce
text by mel kozakiewicz

The cornfield is dark. I create a connection with a being whose language I do not speak.

No entiendo. Tenderness. His shadow stands alone, as if I have entered him. He is a fantasy of a man, or I am. My crutches stand without support, embodied by spirits translated long ago by Ngozi and Keisha.

Today the tree survives only under foot, but the shadow of its former vibrance refuses to submit. Refuses death. Far from our body there is an abundance of hidden faces, each studying our gesture of silence. The focus is on the scarcity. On the light.

We come across a refridgerator, where we commence our dance. He removes the doors and props them up against its shoulders, dressing it. He is proud of the space he has altered. I say mire esto but he monopolizes our mouth. I approach the piece of paper which diagrams the inner workings of the subject but he adjusts the shelves, caresses their edge.

We move through wet grass. The light is permanent. We evade its weight. My comfort grows in the impossibility of our union, my corporeal disappearance.

The cows startle me. I cower inside his breath. Lights interrogate his intentions, but he is confident. He asks where I have gone. He cannot find me amidst the cows. The energies have muddled. The pungence in his nose empowers me to occupy his throat. He gags. The walls volley the sound like a ball.

I do not know how long I will rest inside him. He scratches at our feet. The hay is sharp. What restrains the cows? Is there contentment?