After driving from Palermo toSyracuse, I still need to park the car. Good fluke! Drive along the boundaries of small island developing and slip into the carapace of stone.Carry your container of coins. 20 euros.No credit cards.
In the fifth century, Aeschylus Oresteia was acted nearby. He died in Gela, far from Athens, having acted briefly for a oppressor mentioned Hiero I, restaging The Women of Aetna and the Persians . Pliny chronicles that Aeschylus lived in anxiety of a prophecy “says hes” would be killed by a falling object.In the end, Aeschylus was killed outside the city by a tortoise declined by an eagle which had mistaken his head for a rock-and-roll suitable for smashing the shell of the reptile. Which produces us to our parking garage, connecting Syracuse with Ortygia. A magnificent place for a sightseer to hide.
The tourist area of Ortygia is graf-free for the persons who come to honor Aeschylus. Yet one remains returning to the parking garage, murals splattered on walls, if exclusively to watch the parking meters every 24 hours.Graf bellows another language.Not Italian , not Greek. It resembles nothing so much as blood.
Onemural artist quotes Dali. Another, Picasso. A third simply scrawls a pair of glasses. Whos looking at whom? The walls see.Headless eyeglasses stare back. Each segment of the parking garage is divided up by a graf gang; each crew randomly choosing their own room. Honor among vandals, as Henry Chalfant wrote in Subway Art. It is something Michelangelo might have visualized had he come to Sicily instead of Rome. Had he been a bit lazier. Without an aesthetic head, chaos prospers in Ortygias parking garage, but so does knack, unmitigated by nepotism. Democracya great trial by jury.Sometimes a palimpsest; sometimes a solo exhibition.
On the floor, in front of the frescoes that thread the parking garage, with plastic bottles and detritus, hides a homeless “mens and” his puppy. They sleep under the most brilliant graf of all.Strawberry Fields forever, it says.I give 2 euros, about to lay it on a cloth, as if leaving alms at a baroque cathedral to ignite a candle in this overheated darkness.I fee just as much to use a shower, and besides, Ive already exasperated him. Photographed the frescoes, ended with flash bursts.And hitherto it must be done. The walls cry out for remembrance.You come for charm? Ill testify you beauty, “theyre saying”. Unscripted. Unpatronized. Unloved.
Who will claim this isthmus? Where will the suffering of the city get? Whose artcould be more vibrant, swelling fatty with negligence? Will anyone bother to read neon signeds of displeasure, desperation, or self-assertion? A exultation of life.Ortygia is swimming with it. Dizzying, perhaps. What do visitors guess as they flub for correct change?
Graf has always occupied the lower frequencies of culture: the ultimate background, it is now foreground, a portend of things to come.Revolution.
In Copenhagen, alley of graf address a contrapuntal communication, an American signifier in a foreign film; in Lemonade, Beyonce twirled around.Bitch what? she requests her imaginary resist( is she in her leader ?) as the cameraogles her. She darts between rectangles of plaster, defaced with electrical battery-acid graf. In Purge: Poll Year, graf is scrawled on the neoclassical mainstays of the Lincoln memorial. P-U-R-G-E drips with blood, as if covered by a doll, terminated with incompetent dripping notes, a graf artists button of chagrin. One act everyone are all aware of graf is that youre not supposed to let the letters drip. Thats the mansion of an amateur! In Oust: Ballot Time, assassination is the other side of democracy. P-U-R-G-E.Like Beyonce, subdue with storm; beyond words; Graf is a sanctifying swear. Imprecations. Maniacal power.It is f-ing vitality, human as one practitioner employed it in a movie by Chalfant. Demonaic, manic, half crazed.Daimon. This parking garage is the ancient amphitheatre of graffiti.The hiss of the spray can. The oppositeof a fiction or song. Unconsidered. Ill-considered.Untutored. Caliban, reading to affliction, without revenue to anyone.Puthim in the debit pillar of life. The graf master in civilization. Vandalism! Historys rough draft. It is the perfect fusion of epithet sketch, and self-assertion. And all of this just down the road from a Greek amphitheatre, where Aeschylus Persians is regularly played. Graf, by compare, automatically generates the individuals who fence against period. They dont trust it. Apocalypse now . They are certain that this may be their judgement day on soil, and if they find no publisher, well then, by God, they have found this wall. That should be enough.How long will it last-place? Longer than a best-seller? A week; two years? No stuff. The NYC subway improves were a museum on pedals, spoken by more beings than most tales. Those improves are now replaced by the following paragraph souls of desire. Lawyers ads. Are we better off?
One might hazard the following items:
The power of Graf flourishes in inverse proportion to the governments that s delete it.
The theatre in Syracuse is almost too hot to visit in summer, let alone picture. Glittering white. No graf there, I mention, before returning to my inn, a good ten minutes walk.Patient eloquence, written by a warrior.
Graf captures Americas missing soul.Transplanted and imitation, this native NY art form has traveled the world, with the last subway civilize wiped out by a proud mayor, Ed Koch, who heralded from law-abiding Queens.He famously employed wolves to scare off graf creators, those 14 -year-old hoodlums who had no after-school artwork platforms. Policemenboasted of shoving magic markers down their throat when they could catch these taggers with Greek immigrant figures like Taki 183. Thataboy! That they are able to school em. Boy the way Glen Miller played, lyrics that attained the hit parade.Graf became a felony.Problem solved. 1984. A decade subsequently, Kochs fellow-traveller, Rudolph Guiliani, denounced Robert Mapplethorpe; and then again in 2016, he shared his misreading of Beyonces half-time showwith CNN witness, eloquent in his philistinism. He should have known better, applauding from Italy, that Paradise of Exiles. Ravenna and Padua, hoarder, architect of frescoes. Graffito is Italian, Sicilian even.
In the United States, we have our own martyr. Richard Nixons name appears in tags in NYC in the 1970 s, coloring the operational activities of the Keith Haring. John Lindsays New York City.Graf is always a protest vote. Music of the invisible. A scream on a wall made sumptuous by Bronx masters, mimicked by Madison avenue.Wild style.We give the note, as one serviceman justifies, and then we take it away. We are not asking dispensation, another pronounces. We are taking the space.Writers( that is what they call themselves , not graf artists) is inseparable from crime. That is the stimulate. Take the seat. Theft.
Here it is, a humble parking garage in Ortygia.A moneymaker. Shake your moneymaker.I have now parked my automobile, rented from Avis in Palermo, on a street known for prostitution. In Ortygia, 4.5 hours away, sightseers are charged 20 euros a daytime to park their autoes. The costs are expended , no doubt, to obliterate graffiti from the beautiful grey walls of this very parking garage, in a city that allures tourists for its baroque cathedrals.They are right to wipe out the graf! Keep the city clean! Honor the past! Punish the hooligans. The parking meter meters meter; it is the opponent of the parking fresco, and yet they need one another. Union of heaven and hell.Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
Still, graf is frozen in the parking garage. This graf I see is the death of graf.It no longer moves. It is no longer moving. Stationary frescoes.Crippled trains. This graf looks back like the eyes of corpses in the catacomb dei cappuccini.For what is a parking garage, after all, but a mausoleum? Gasoline. Exhaust. Temporary burial ground for automobiles. Expensive signifier that reeks of pollution. P.P-ew. No speculate Quentin Compson hated his automobile. Purveyor of extinction and contamination. Carbon monoxide gas. A tale been said by an idiot.It is the warmest residence in the town, this parking garage, because it is the most human. That is why the blonde homeless soldier whose epithet I will never know has chosen to sleep here with his dog.It is atrociou to be poor.That is why I look away as I threw 2 euros in his dirty side. I hope I will not be infected by his bad luck, even as I try to help. He has been watching me the whole period; Id like to ask him to stand aside so I can take my picture of the wall behind him, but this is gonna be pornographic. It is not possible. Stubbornly, he remains.He comes with the place. He will not be photographed in front of a mural announced Strawberry Fields, but he will not be removed. He likes the warm silent thrusting of the electric pulse of suffering. And who are in a position blame him? He resides in “the worlds largest” artistic lieu of the city.A docent in this palace of prowes, as entitled to my two euros as the Mayor of Ortygia. He likes the music of stillnes. This graf. This glamour. He is a curator of dirt, of the unremembered and reviled.
Overheated? my lover asks when I return to our 4-star hotel.Stupefied is more like it. Fromthe subways of New York to the baroque cathedrals ofOrtygia, to Aeschylus Oresteia, is but a short expedition after all.