Graffitum

An Essay by Stephen Geez
www.StephenGeez.com
Art by Dizzy

Scurrying between obligations and opportunities as a newly minted University of Michigan undergraduate way back in the day, I noticed a puzzling depiction painted on an Ann Arbor sidewalk.  Three-odd decades later, I find myself pondering it again, recalling that brief flash of trifling curiosity amid weightier thoughts and grander mysteries.

Or maybe I’m just taking a moment now to see things differently.

The graffitum appeared to be a pair of cartoonish eyes amid several curved slashes, obviously a work in progress, or maybe—given the illicit nature of such artistic expression—simply a case of imago interruptus. Dozens of spottings later, I did stop for a moment to consider it, even to look about for clues.  A typical iron fence lined one side of the walk, a row of money-grubbing double-headed parking meters the other, beyond which stretched an unremarkable street and parking garage.  Move along, nothing to see here.

We tend to zoom through life awash in streaming messages, ideas and images hurled our way by people who want us to hear, to see, to think, to understand what they know; yet I find that often what intrigues me most is the forlorn concept left not fully stated, the unfinished draft of a notion never expressed.  On any of those occasions, someone did succeed in getting my attention, but the overriding confluence of circumstance and fate somehow intervened to leave me wondering and, too often, frustrated and disappointed.  Had I been fully informed, I might well have dismissed the communication, but not given the chance, I’ll never know.

In the early ’90s I taught a prison Story Writing class.  There among the wrongly convicted, the mis-convicted, and the guilty as sin—but mostly repentant—I discovered that small segment who not only felt they had something insightful and important to say, but who also proved eager for help learning interesting and effective ways to say it.

Understanding they faced considerably more formidable obstacles than most of their attention-seeking competitors, I cautioned them that the U.S. Supreme Court’s affirmation that even incarcerants retain their 1st Amendment rights of self-expression means only that they’re guaranteed an opportunity to write and submit, but that no Constitution guarantees them an audience.  Given the requirements of outside support and generally elusive serendipity, two additional elements would be needed for their potential success: having something meaningful to say—or at least entertaining, if not both—and a presentation forged with skill and considerable effort.

I know that even after years of flinging my own words, I still expend more energy and incur more expense chasing new audiences—and trying to maintain those I’ve already tenuously captured—to read my stories and books, the former given freely as enticement, the latter for sale in hopes the debtors’ wolves don’t chew off my other leg.

So how hard must the graffiti artist work to find his own audience?  Though he does risk prosecution—an approach deemed admirable by posterity only when the message ultimately proves righteous—he purchases (or “boosts”) only the paints, then co-opts the public square to serve as his canvas.  Big Business pays hundreds of thousands for billboard space that can’t begin to rival the potential found in a gleaming expanse of freshly painted highway-overpass girder, the side of a building, or even an oft-trod sidewalk.

I don’t have much respect for tagging, a marking of territory not fundamentally much different than dogs urinating on fence posts, but I do admire the artistry in conceptual statements, depictions of the human condition, the only opportunity a soul yearning for expression can find to say, This is who I am, and this is what I think.  I can especially admire when the sprayed-on graphic art is borne of the belief that We live where you built that, so its function is yours, but the veneer must reflect us.

A central theme in several of my books explores the human need for creative expression, for finding a voice so compelling that others might listen or look.  In What Sara Saw a wonderful young woman hurt too many ways devotes herself to understanding the nature of that power an artist infuses in his work to move others toward recognition, to provoke laughter or tears.  In Fantasy Patch ad-agency creative director Danté wrestles with his own artistry balanced against plying his talents for commerce and to sway public opinion, a futile effort that increasingly threatens to topple him and his ideals.  Like many writers, I have way more to say than I’ll ever have a chance to set down, yet I often surprise and amuse myself with the odd and sometimes less-consequential choices I make for topics . . .

Like maybe a pair of eyes and slashing curves painted on an Ann Arbor sidewalk three-odd decades ago.

I did solve that mystery several years later, and while I’m sure whoever painted that image has since gone on to greater means of expression and, I hope, a rewarding measure of success, I do appreciate what he was trying to say to me.

You see, he’d noticed something, probably time and time again, and maybe he wanted simply to make sure others noticed it, too, or even to share a smile of acknowledgment with those who already had.  I try to dig deep and say important things, especially in my books, but often I’m satisfied just to earn a laugh, or to point out something we might pass every day but never truly see.

I walked that same route one night after dark.  A bright security light on the parking garage lit the money-grubbing double-headed parking meters, casting their shadows across the walk.  Perfectly aligned, one maintained its shape and created the dark outline of . . .

Mickey Mouse.

I wonder how many times the graffiti artist noticed it before he felt compelled to bring his paints one night to fill in the eyes and mouth.

Now if I could only figure out how to encourage that anonymous pop-artist to notice my website and buy one of my books . . .

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