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Spotty dots and polkas like a dance. Splashes and neater dashes, lines and borders that define. Colours vivid and alive, contrasting walls that now become so bland.
Moods that represent, circumstances of life the artist presents, with designs that display and portray.
Viewers as the audience, non-consumers in the sense of financial transactions lacking. Payments instead with their thought-provoking appreciation. Photographers recording artistic history. Limited personal attendances at times in locations that breach territorial illegalities, compensated by shared online images, expanding a universe of perspectives. Likened to views from all corners of the globe, had the world been confined to the shape of a box like our thoughts.
Words that form a foreign hieroglyphic, unreadable by people like me. Presumably illiterate, as far as our eyes can see. On par with the likes of the Magic Eye books and posters I’d always shunned as a kid.
More readable are the freedoms of written speech, occasionally deserving a reaction. At times a smile or chuckle, perhaps even a gut-vibrating laughing action. Somewhat evidently, a progression from the early Bart Simpson generations of writing, ‘I was here,’ in toilet cubicles.
Mirroring the creativity and individuality of life, street art as the output of the artist and something viewed by members of the public, is a personal interpretation.
Some folks are ugly because it’s what they choose to focus on and subsequently see. Others on the opposite end of the spectrum, choose to purposely seek out beauty in everything life offers. They view artistic pieces more carefully, analysing thoughts evoked by sight. Contaminating their attention upon close contact, like emitted radiation that penetrates their thoughts.
Returning to the theme of ugliness but in a category of its own at the bottom of the food chain. Like at sewer level where the taggers lie submerged, filled with the output from those above. Sewer rats, who ruin good pieces with their child-like scrawls. Occasionally, ill-matured young men secretly obsessed with the penis, despite portraying a false sense of macho heterosexuality, deface works of art with male genitals. Almost always with a size incomparable to their own puny privates and despite a certainty, they lack somewhat experience in engaging it on par with their bravado.
Limiting any further attention wasted on these irrelevant muppets who clearly serve no purpose, it’s nice to stop and look at these colourful and creative pieces of expression. Particularly when they’re located in places few get to see and enjoy.