I fancy myself a creative sort.
I am often found painfully hunched over a project,sculpting ...carving ...scribbling ...birthing my latest inspiration. This happens in cycles and I inevitably collapse with a tired brain, bleeding eyes and an overwhelming sense of immense satisfaction, gazing like a proud parent at my offspring. Thankfully this process almost never results in post-partum depression.
Following such an ordeal, a creative draught ensues. During this dry season, "The Simpsons" and "CSI" dim my wits...stunt my creative growth...dowse my artistic fire, causing the moths of inspiration to flit towards a brighter flame.
Wow...perhaps I should serve some crackers with that cheese...
Anyway, my most recent dry spell was longer than most. It began to worry me. Friends and fans of past work asked, "Donna, why don't you make jewellery/sculpt/draw/photograph/paint any more?" to which I never had a satisfactory response. I honestly didn't know.
Thinking back, I now understand it was the result of various accumulated frustrations. Lack of support, theft of my original ideas and disappointment at my own short comings are the big three. Embracing my lethargy, I became content to sit back and observe the artistic world from the side lines.
Not long ago, I was invited to partake in the embellishment of the wall surrounding the new arena construction site. Thinking it would be a prime photo session rather than an artistic work out, I agreed to make an appearance. This appearance created an obsession.
The first day of painting was fun, sweaty and productive. I managed to complete two "paint and brush" pieces and was quite pleased with their outcome. I also shot almost an entire roll of black and white.
The following day, I returned and began work on a third, somewhat uninspired piece. Thinking to myself,"Self, you can't make it look any worse. You might as well." I reached for a can of spray paint.
As I gently shook the can and listened to the little mixing ball inside chatter, a blast of anticipation swept through me. With a long "psssht", I had officially defaced my own work...and it was beautiful. A loud, maniacal giggle erupted from me and I was hooked.
As I looked at the swirling, misty line I had sprayed across the wall, the true potential of this taboo art form became evident. I spent the rest of the night spraying and giggling and shaking those chattering cans until darkness inhibited me and my hand cramped to the point of tears...tears both from pain and from the inability to continue the graffiti.
For the next three days, I completely forgot about my camera and worked through the hand cramps.
I have since ravenously devoured this new found love for graffiti and have been researching artists, designing my own "tag" and scoping out local spots I would love to "bomb".....that's right, I'm down with the lingo....I even have my own spray can trigger (thanks Beth) and two "Sharpie Magnums" for those finishing touches. I am armed and ready. You may someday soon see my name in the "Police Files" for my beautiful crimes, but it will all be in the name of art.
My migration to the art of bombing, now, seems only natural. I have, long ago, embraced the sub-culture surrounding this art form....skateboarding, punk rock, the need for self expression....and with my latest wake up call, I plan to hopefully remove the stigma inhibiting this urban form of expression.
Well, there it is. My story of how I learned to stop worrying and love the bomb. Change your perspective and look at graffiti as an art form rather than a crime and you, too, can love the bomb.
* This story was originally written for the September 2005 issue of Articulations. No, I did NOT paint the artwork which appears with this story. I do, however, hope to be this good someday.
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