Vol 1 No 2 (Autumn 2020)

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Street Art Rising Marshall Soules—[email protected]

This illustrated article discusses the various manifestations of —, posters, , social —and the impact of street art on urban environments. Continuing perceptions of street art as vandalism contributing to urban decay neglects to account for street art’s full spectrum of effects. As freedom of expression protected by law, as news from under-privileged classes, as images of social uplift and consciousness-raising, and as beautification of urban milieux, street art has social benefits requiring re-assessment. Street art has become a significant global art movement.

Detailed contextual history includes the photographer Brassai's interest in Parisian graffiti between the world wars; Cézanne’s use of passage; Walter Benjamin's assemblage of fragments in The Arcades Project; the practice of dérive (passage through diverse ambiances, drifting) and détournement (rerouting, hijacking) as social and political intervention advocated by Guy Debord and the Situationist International; Dada and Surrealist montage and collage; and the art of Quebec Automatists and French Nouveaux réalistes. Present street art engages dynamically with 20th C. art history.

The article explores McLuhan’s ideas about the power of mosaic style to subvert the received order, opening spaces for new discourse to emerge, new patterns to be discovered. The author compares street art to advertising, and raises questions about appropriation, authenticity, and style. How does street art survive when it leaves the streets for galleries, design shops, and museums?

Street art continues to challenge communication strategies of the privileged classes and elected officials, and increasingly plays a reconstructive role in modulating the emotional tenor of urban spaces. Two cases studies of Christchurch, NZ and Hanoi, Vietnam illustrate how street art is being used to heal tragic wounds and inspire hope.

I want to dedicate this article to J.S. Porter—friend and writer—who took a keen interest in my photographs of street art, interviewed me for Hamilton Arts & Letters, and wrote about my work in his blog. Please see the References for links to his writing for further context. All photos (except Figure 1) are by the author.

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Dark Times It is 2020, the year of seeing clearly, and ill-famed streets around the globe are buzzing with dissent, cracking with violence, choking on tear gas. Signs, posters, murals, and graffiti plaster urban walls, calling out their messages: “Black Lives Matter…I Can’t Breathe…My Daughter is Missing or Murdered…Me Too…Extinction Revolution!” Greta Thunberg’s words hang over the scene: “But I don’t want your hope, I don’t want you to be hopeful. I want you to panic, I want you to feel the fear I feel every day” (Foer, 2019, np). Fake news seeps out of print, radio, television and social media onto the streets, back alleys, and gathering places where narratives are being written by moving bodies, splashes of vivid paint, strong words on paper and walls.

Flashback to the 1933 edition of Figure 1: Brassai, Graffiti, , circa 1933 Minotaure (3/4), where the Hungarian photographer Brassaï (Guyla Holasz) famously described Parisian graffiti as Figure 1: Brassai, Wall Propositions, Paris, 1950 “l’art bâtard des rues mal famées” (Gautrand, 2008). Brassai’s fascination with bastard art and ill- famed streets was not a new obsession; at the time, he was earning his reputation as an acknowledged master of capturing his urban subjects in the moody chiaroscuro of the City of Light. Why is graffiti a bastard art? Is it a mongrel artform? Was unsanctioned procreation uniting mismatched lovers? Could degenerate art be consorting with the high life? Between the great wars, were Parisians witnessing the death-rattle of their culture, the ill-famed streets populated by criminals, orphans, refugees, the illegitimate?

In the context of Minotaure, Brassaï’s photographs of gouged and scratched graffiti (from sgraffito, to scratch, and graphein, to write) contributed to the Surrealist project of placing the archaic image at the heart of modernism. Ruin, violence, and displacement had carved deep wounds. Tribalism was stirring. Discovering remnants of the primitive in the streets of Paris appealed to the ethnologist and documentarian in Brassaï, and expressed the kind of improvisation, spontaneity, and ad hoc happenstance André Breton and other Surrealists admired in pure

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Street Art Rising psychic automatism. Perhaps chance operations would help them plumb the unruly depths of the human psyche. Picasso commented: “It was a brilliant idea to collect these images…. These walls are as rich as the façade of any cathedral!” (qtd.Gautrand, p.14) For his part, Brassaï discovered a new source of inspiration: “Thanks to my endless walks through Paris, I was able to go on and do a kind of social study of the creatures who peopled the city at night. I was familiar with all the low life, and even with the criminals of that time” (p.12).

Figure 2: What You Say, Downtown East Side, Vancouver, 2010 Subterranean Arcades

Urban exploration is “adventurous trespass in the built environment. Among the requirements for participation are claustrophilia, lack of vertigo, a taste for decay, a fascination with infrastructure, a readiness to climb fences and lift manhole covers, and a familiarity with the varying laws of access across different jurisdictions” (Macfarlane, Underland, 2019, p. 153).

Origin stories of street art (or more appropriately “wall art”) vary from prehistoric cave paintings and petroglyphs going back at least 44,000 years (in Indonesia), to the walls of Pompei, streets of Paris in the late 19th century, the Wall, and blooming into tagging, (master)pieces, and wild style graffiti of Philadelphia and NYC in the 1970s. [Two fine films capture the graffiti scene from the 1970s on: Style Wars (1983 / 2004) and Bomb It (2007)]. In Underland (2019), Robert Macfarlane wanders the world to take us below the planet’s surface, including the streets of Paris and New York, into the excavations and passageways where artists perform below the public gaze. He describes a secret map he will use to explore these subterranean passages:

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The plan of the above-ground city is traced carefully in pale silver-grey ink, such that if you trick your eyes to read only for the grey, you can discern the outline of this upper city as a specter-architecture: the faint footprints of apartment blocks and embassies, parks and ornamental gardens, boulevards and streets, the churches, railway lines and the train stations, all hovering there, intricate and immaterial (p. 129).

In setting his scene of the underworld below the specter-architecture of the above-ground city, Macfarlane reverses figure and ground so we may see more clearly hidden human passageways and places to escape, bury, forget, preserve. The visible city is spectral, an artifact of illusions; the hidden excavations ground these illusions in historical reality. Macfarlane recounts how Walter Benjamin’s The Arcades Project (Passagenwerk), written between 1927-1940, attempted to document the “topography, history and humanity of Paris” (p. 133). Benjamin’s unfinished, fragmentary book “was a gigantic, futile, magical attempt at historical comprehension, which understood the city’s past in part to be a collective dream and the city’s structures to possess a metaphysical aura as well as a material presence” (p. 133). Media ecologists will understand Benjamin’s conflation of physical with metaphysical and affective environments.

The Arcades Project is an early example of “history from below.” It retrieves “anonymous beings,” from the working class to politicians and aristocrats. “He made his book from scraps, gleaning it into existence as an archive of the stories of the city’s unsung masses rather than those of its rulers” (Macfarlane, p. 133). Benjamin’s “subterranean city” shadowed the social consciousness illuminating the city of the surface. With his collage style of assemblage, Benjamin was shadowing the dark haunts of future graffiti writers and wall artists in those cities built over the underground architecture and quarries of the past. These “temporary autonomous zones” (Bey, 1991) provide a haven for artists to etch their signs and patterns that connect beyond the public gaze. The ability to circulate freely within urban spaces has become indelibly associated with the meanderings of Baudelaire’s decadent flâneur, borrowed by Benjamin. However, Benjamin's urban wanderer is also a cultural fabricator whose choice of materials reveals assumptions about cultural production, class, and privilege. Guy Debord's critique of the "society of the spectacle" continues Benjamin's wanderings with the notion of the dérive (literally "drifting"), an important technique in the Situationist International's toolbox of subversion:

In a dérive one or more persons during a certain period drop their relations, their work and leisure activities, and all their other usual motives for movement and action, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there. Chance is a less important factor in this activity than one might think: from a dérive point of view cities have psychogeographical contours, with constant currents, fixed points and vortexes that strongly discourage entry into or exit from certain zones. (Debord, 1956 / 1958)

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For Situationists, a détournement redirects media and its constructions back against the expressions of dominant culture as a form of satire, a prank, a destabilization of the status quo. , , Yes Men, Guerrilla Girls, Pussy Riot are experts in the art of détournement: art turned towards cultural revolution and class war, guerrilla style.

Figure 3: Shepard Fairey in Bali, 2014 Guerrilla Class War By 2020, street art and graffiti culture have emerged as a fertile aesthetic movement, brimming with message and sub-text, propagating wildly, and aptly illustrating McLuhan’s conviction that artists are the Distant Early Warning alarmists of the culture (1951). In what amounted to a renaissance of graffiti and street art in the 1970s, tagging and “pieces” announced an emerging underground culture primed for subversion. Street art engages in non-violent discourse between those with power and those disenfranchised by power. Whether the theme is gender or racial politics, economic inequality or media manipulation, people who appropriate urban walls to send a message are engaging in civil

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Marshall Soules dialogue because other avenues are barricaded, off-limits. As media ethnographers, we can pay attention to these artists by documenting their work and messages to help us understand social issues falling through the cracks. Street art is barely tolerated in many cities. Often labelled vandalism, it is prohibited, erased, and criminalized, framed as a crime against property, anti-social behaviour, or visual clutter (Soules, 2005). The term street art refers here to a spectrum of art practices: tagging, graffiti, fly postering, stencils, stickers, , social murals, and art pieces. Often, these are layered up on urban walls collage-style and demonstrate a form of collective improvisation, a 2-D version of the public demonstration. Like advertising and other forms of persuasion, street art trades on symbolic communication, using words and images to shape Figure 4: Army of One, Las Vegas, 2014 attitudes and beliefs. The result is heterogenous, discontinuous, where chance combinations join with strategic intervention to construct a mosaic of influence. Mosaics of Influence: Total Effect McLuhan (1951) compared the mosaic layout of newspaper front pages with “the techniques of modern science and art. Discontinuity is in different ways a basic concept both of quantum and relativity physics…. Notoriously, it is the visual technique of a Picasso, the literary technique of James Joyce” (3). The discontinuous newspaper mosaic, for McLuhan, effectively meant that “henceforth this planet is a single city” (3). The discontinuities of Cubism, Dada collage, film montage, Surreal juxtapositions, Automatism, and Abstract Expressionism were all absorbed by street art to create a revolutionary global art form. The medium itself is by nature oppositional, its message dissent—the messy, contentious, democratic, Dionysian challenge to the Apollonian dream of order, privilege, and hierarchy. McLuhan’s “mosaic or field approach” represents “the galaxy or constellation of events” in a “mosaic of perpetually interacting forms that have undergone kaleidoscopic transformation…” (Kuskis 2017, np). Kuskis quotes Elena’s Lamberti’s observation that meaning derived from mosaic assemblage emerges “through the interplay with its own ground. By doing so, a pattern gets created and in turn revealed through our active observation. Pattern recognition is the way

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Street Art Rising we approach all mosaics: we look for the overall design that the assemblage of the various tesserae brings to light, something which transcends their mere sum” (Lamberti, p. xxviii). Mosaic structure forces viewers to employ pattern recognition, to pay attention to the total design, and to participate in the process of deriving meaning from what they are experiencing. It promotes active engagement, rather than the passive and detached observation characteristic of representational art.

Mosaic emphasizes that all elements together create the total effect. As for collage, the association, arrangement and juxtaposition of objects, phrases, different concepts, both hetero-geneous and absurd, that comment upon and influence each other, all of this has very close affinities with concepts of chance, accident or “serendipity” (making accidental discoveries of valuable, but unsought, know-ledge), important concepts in present science and culture. (Nevitt & McLuhan, 1994, pp. 231-232)

History, as reported in newspapers or television news is a palimpsest, a narrative written over and erased. Layered messages and images compete for attention. Media are voracious concludes Ted Carpenter:

I think media are so powerful they swallow cultures. I think of them as invisible environments which surround & destroy old environments. Sensitivity to problems of culture conflict & conquest becomes meaningless here, for media play no favorites: they conquer all cultures. (1972, pp. 191)

Street art gnaws at the conscience of Figure 5: Blue Woman, Hanoi, 2020 culture. Street artists are often labelled vandals, barbarians trashing the triumphs of civilization. What Adolf Loos famously wrote about ornament applies here: “But the man of our day who, in response to an inner urge, smears the walls with erotic symbols is a criminal or a degenerate…. The evolution of culture is synonymous with the removal of ornament from utilitarian objects…. Freedom from ornament is a sign of spiritual strength” (Loos, 1913/1931, 19-24). These labels are

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Marshall Soules an implicit reminder that the social mosaic may include people of all classes and persuasions, but they must remain fixed in place if society wants to preserve the image it has of itself. Contemporary street art competes for attention in urban spaces characterized by sanctioned directive signs, commercial messages, heroic memorials, blank concrete walls, urban decay, and urban opulence in the neighbourhood of poverty. Unsanctioned tags and pieces announced a variant ethos opposing the status quo, giving voice to the dispossessed, annotating the codes and biases of the time. In his iconoclastic essay “The Faith of Graffiti” (1974), Norman Mailer announced the power of the name for early graf writers:

You hit your name and maybe something in the whole scheme of the system gives a death rattle. For now your name is over their name, over the subway manufacturer, the Transit Authority, the city administration. Your presence is on their presence, your alias hangs over their scene. (p. 78)

Global street art appropriates urban walls and trains to compete with commercial messaging for mindshare. Your alias hangs over their scene like a brand logo. And in a game of tit-for-tat, street art is increasingly appropriated into urban aesthetics, advertising, and fashion. Many of the artists who began their work in the streets eventually entered the galleries or design firms or started selling their images online. Famous examples include Banksy, Shepard Fairey, Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Miss.Tic, , C215, JR. In popular Figure 6: Allez Faire (Go Play the Male Elsewhere), Miss Tic, Paris, 1995 culture, writes Douglas Rushkoff, “unconventional behaviors are quickly identified, copied, and then sold back to us as commodified identities" (2019). As a global phenomenon, street art accumulates in conducive environments: in dark places, subway corridors, back alleys, abandoned buildings, crumbling neighbourhoods, slums, and concrete infrastructure. Asking why it proliferates in some places and not in others provides insight into opportunities, regional social conditions, governance, and grievances. Today, much street art retains its back-alley aesthetics—a culture of revision and annotation—while also feeling the inexorable pull of commercialism and legitimacy. From advertising and televisual backgrounds, to fashion and galleries, street art had to prove its artistry, impact, and relevance in

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Street Art Rising the face of opposition armed with pressure washers, buffing paint, and the law. In return, it has been appropriated to sell, instruct, uplift. From Adverts to Zen In The Mechanical Bride (1951), McLuhan anticipated the growing persuasive power of advertising with this cogent warning: “Ours is the first age in which many thousands of the best- trained individual minds have made it a full-time business to get inside the collective mind. To get inside in order to manipulate, exploit, control is the object now. And to generate heat not light is the intention” (p. v). Seventy years later, the global impact of street art continues to challenge the materialist ethos of commercial messaging and surveillance capitalism. Cheek by jowl with mainstream media, this dialogue wages an existential war of belief and conscience.

But McLuhan’s warning cuts both ways. What if all these street artists and their crews, collectively, are smarter and more cunning than the Mad Men? What if street art discredits consumerism and endless prosperity in the public mind? We see the intercultural mosaic pulsing with contradiction, charged with hope and frustration. The global membrane quivers with anticipation at the outcome (Powe & Soules, 2019). McLuhan warns us not to take advertising for granted, or as a blight on the mid-century mindscape; instead, think of it as a reflection of our deep aspirations and fears. I propose the same reconsideration of street art. thrives on the dream of regeneration. What would McLuhan say now about the proliferation of street art, its migration from the subways, alleys, and deserted places to art galleries and positions of esteem? Here is his proposal with advertising: “Why not assist the public to observe consciously the drama which is intended to operate upon it unconsciously?” (1951, p. v) As Big Data seeks to decode the unconscious by sweeping up our online breadcrumbs, perhaps it will find a way to apply its algorithms to street art, identify our vulnerabilities, and predict our public behaviours. What will Pinterest, Flikr and YouTube reveal about our passions and obsessions? When we decode them with algorithms, visual patterns will surely be a source of inspiration and instruction. Remix culture (Lessig, 2008) is an important notion in media ecology, touching on Guy Debord’s ideas of détournement (rerouting, hijacking), Adbuster’s culture jamming, and other satirical performance practices. Many street art works show how images are turned back on their sources, either for parody or shaping social awareness. As with street art, political propaganda often riffs on advertising or pop iconography, subverting the original for persuasive effect.

Michel de Certeau’s approach to popular culture in The Practice of Everyday Life (1984) is embodied in his idea of poaching: “Everyday life invents itself by poaching in countless ways on the property of others” (p. xii). This poaching trope applies equally to advertising, street art, and countless literary and musical borrowings.

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As the reputation of street art shifts from vandalism to increasing legitimacy, we see how it has retained its role as conscience to cultures awash in materialism and struggling with existential dangers associated with resource extraction, conflict and climate change, mass migrations and factionalism. Street art introduces grace notes of resistance and dissonance into hegemonic narratives of social coherence as epitomized by advertising and political spectacle. In this role, it adopts for itself ethical codes about artistic production and authenticity— street cred. The culture of street art invites critique and judgement as to placement and aesthetic value. And the translation of street art—either as art in galleries, illustration in digital media, or as style and decoration in advertising—introduces numerous ethical issues related to attribution, authenticity, appropriation, and erasure. As I have stated elsewhere

There’s a lot of controversy on this question. Reputation (street cred) is Figure 7: Tired of Men, San Francisco, 1991 earned by artistic performance in the street, in the subways and railyards, in dangerous locations, places difficult to access, humorous places. And, most importantly perhaps, is not done for commercial gain except for commissioned murals. So, the controversy cuts from both directions: street artists are forfeiting their subversive credentials by selling their work in galleries; and artists who appropriate the style without bothering with the streets are considered posers, inauthentic, doing it for the cash. (qtd. Porter, 2020)

Zen koan: If cultures have a conscience, where do we find it? Street Art, Posters, and the Law

She led me into the shadows that waited beyond the bright tube platform. The concrete walls were overlaid with graffiti, years of them twisting into a single metascrawl of rage and frustration. (William Gibson, 1986)

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Street art is news for people with limited means. Poor people do not have equal access to create expensive media, but they can leave their messages on city walls with inexpensive materials. In many jurisdictions around the world, graffiti and unsanctioned postering have been identified as a costly social problem. While many solutions have been proposed, most of them treat graffiti as vandalism and postering as a form of unsightliness or litter. Both graffiti and postering are assumed to signify urban decay and increased levels of crime. Municipalities are often willing to devote considerable resources to control these related phenomena. Besides the costs, attempts to control unsanctioned images usually have legal implications related to municipal jurisdiction and freedom of expression guarantees. In Canada, the Charter of Rights and Freedoms was invoked in the significant Supreme Court case of Ramsden vs. Peterborough (city) to guarantee the rights of citizens to use posters as a means of public expression. An outright ban on all postering was considered to abridge freedom of expression. The judges agreed unanimously that “it is clear that postering on public property, including utility poles, fosters political and social decision-making and thereby furthers at least one of the values underlying S2(b) [of the Charter]: “freedom of thought, belief, opinion and expression, including freedom of the press and other media of communication” (Ramsden versus Supreme Court, 1993). Opponents of this legal position argue that postering and graffiti in combination signify— Figure 8: Mass Media, Athens, 1995 according to the “broken windows” theory (Wilson and Kelling, 1982)—a higher incidence of crime in a given area, and a loss of control on the part of municipal authorities and law enforcement agencies. (This theory has been widely criticized in social sciences research. See for example, Bernard Harcourt’s Illusion of Order: The False Promise of Broken Windows Policing, 2001.) For years, the was used to rationalize detention and fining of artists, and the erasure of their work. The distinction between sanctioned and unsanctioned images is useful to describe how municipalities distinguish between those signs and marks required for commerce and good government from those signifying lack of order and loss of control. Alternatively, Hermer and

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Hunt distinguish between “official” and “unofficial” graffiti to pry open the complex discourse constructed by “absent authorities” through a proliferation of signage—especially the prohibition circle with its diagonal red slash. “It is this world of everyday regulation,” they write, “which we seek to characterize as permeated with ‘official graffiti,’ which consists of a great profusion of regulatory signs, notices, symbols, and instructions that figure in everyday life” (457). Through a process they call “legal imperialism,” Hermer and Hunt argue that “the appearance of official status...is the key to a persistent blurring of the public-private divide” (456). At a fundamental level, the discourse between official and unofficial signs marks a contest over public space, its ownership, and control. To street artists, this contest retrieves cultural imperialism. The focus thus shifts from the perceived disordered environment to the causes of disorder, which remain unaddressed: urban decay, crumbling infrastructure, , homelessness, and visible poverty. Instead, cities subscribing to broken windows theory believe that by removing the symptoms, the disease will be cured. Graffiti writer Celtic sums up the dilemma: "The streets aren't any safer because the walls are clean, it just looks that way" (Art Crimes FAQ). For municipal legislators and law enforcement agencies, however, the Charter freedoms of graffiti and postering have lower priority because they feel compelled to respond to pressures from the public and business community to keep cities clean, orderly, and free of crime. They focus on the immediate realities of discharging their responsibilities in a legal and fiscally responsible way. In many cases, municipalities recognize the artistic merits of graffiti and the rights of citizens to express themselves, and attempt to find remedies acceptable to taxpayers. Though cities are unable to ban postering, the court sympathized with their concerns about litter and the “visual aesthetic blight" that abandoned posters create, and suggested content-neutral restrictions to control where, how many, what size, length of time, and method of posting. To date, several Canadian cities have implemented these restrictions in their legislation and introduced poster collars or kiosks to contain the spread of posters. Meanwhile, advocates for postering see the medium as a positive addition to the political and social life of a city. As Emily Pohl-Weary (2012) notes in her article about poster pirates reclaiming downtown Toronto, benefits of postering include offering respite for viewers, challenging corporate takeover or competing for space with corporate interests, and providing an unmediated and "evolving medium of social dissent, community communication and grassroots promotion” (np), Reading these signs, we see the life of the city, and important messages for community and city officials alike about fracture points in their community. Potentially, posters and graffiti are a plea for attention to social problems; a sign of resistance to over-regulation and commercialization of city space; an effort to contribute to a diminishing public sphere; an urban art movement; and a comment on the double standards informing city bylaws. As graffiti writer Krypt tells it: “It's about control of information. We're putting up our own information and they can't control it. In the tunnels, on rooftops, in abandoned buildings, next

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Street Art Rising to the railroad tracks; that's where we give shit life. We make the gray, the brown, the dirt, into something new, colorful, and ever changing" (Walsh, 1996, np).

Figure 9: Jacob Yikes, Christchurch, 2016 Nomads and Vandals in the Public Sphere If there is indeed a class war reflected in street art, perhaps it is between those who stay in one place and those who move, both literally and figuratively. In Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century, James Clifford begins with the notion that human location is “constituted by displacement as much as by stasis” (2). Those who stay usually displace those already there. His tools for “prying open culture are expanded concepts of writing and collage, the former seen as interactive, open-ended, and processual, the latter as a way of making space for heterogeneity, for historical and political, not simply aesthetic, juxtapositions” (3). Clifford explores how stasis and mobility interact in the construction of (cultural) identity:

In the twentieth century, cultures and identity reckon with both local and transnational powers to an unprecedented degree. Indeed, the currency of culture and identity as performative acts can be traced to their articulation of homelands, safe places where the traffic across borders can be controlled. Such acts of control, maintaining coherent insides and outsides, are always tactical. Cultural action, the making and remaking of identities, takes place in the contact zones, along the political and transgressive intercultural frontiers of nations, peoples, locales. Stasis and purity are asserted—creatively and violently—against historical forces of movement and contamination. (7)

For Clifford, location is “an itinerary rather than a bounded site—a series of encounters and translations” (11). If we think of our urban centers as “contact zones” where “stasis and purity”— what is sanctioned—are asserted against forces of “movement and contamination,” we can identify some of the forces at work in the question of regulating images in the public sphere.

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The obvious ethical privileging of “purity” over “contamination” is a questionable distinction. Is a large sign for the Chase Manhattan Bank “pure,” while a skillfully wrought graffiti piece a contamination? While municipal legislation takes great pains to encode the ethics of this distinction, Stallybrass and White in “Bourgeois Hysteria and the Carnivalesque,” suggest by analogy how repressed fear of disorder—as represented by the carnivalesque—can lead to suppression of energies and alternate politics required to invigorate democracies. Stasis equals status quo, order, purity; Nomadism equals change, disorder, contamination? This dialectic is further complicated by the question of who owns the public sphere: those who are static or those who are mobile? As Jürgen Habermas argued in The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (1962), equal access to the public sphere, free from the threat of coercion, is essential to the healthy functioning of democracy. If those with money and influence can erect signs in the public sphere, what provisions are made to provide equal access for all citizens?

Figure 10: Nepal Inked, Art Lab, Kathmandu, 2014 The Art of Street Art “The name is the faith of graffiti.” (Cay, qtd. In Mailer, 1974)

In “The Faith of Graffiti” (1974), Mailer argues against the grain that street art emerges from the fertile ground of 20th C. modernism:

So when it comes to a matter of what might influence the writers of graffiti, one is not obliged therefore to speak only of neon signs, decals on custom cars, and comic strips, TV products and the heavy ego of TV—that nattering flickering contemporary ship of state—one has the other right to think the kids are unwittingly enriched by all art which offers the eye a family resemblance to graffiti. Which

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might enable us then to talk of Jackson Pollock and the abstract graffiti of his confluences and meanderings, of Stuart Davis’ dramatization of print as a presence which grows in swollen proportion to its size, even include Hans Hofmann’s Memoria in Aeternum where those red and yellow rectangles float like statements of a name over indistinct washes beneath, or Matisse’s blue and green Dance. (Matisse’s limbs wind onto one another like the ivy-creeper calligraphies of New York graffiti.) So might one refer as well to all work which speaks of ghetto emotion in any place, of Siqueiros’ Echo of a Scream, or van Gogh’s The Starry Night. If the family histories of the most messed-up families have all the garbage-can chaos of de Kooning’s Woman, no wonder the subway writers prided themselves on style and éclat—“you got a messed-up handwriting” being the final term of critical kill. (p. 154)

Many commentators, following Mailer, argue that select examples of street art have artistic merit and reflect usefully on social and political issues. There is extensive literature on the style and motivations of graffiti artists; on the virtues of street art; and the importance of postering as an accessible and relatively affordable medium of communication. (See, for example Stahl, 2009.) At least since Martin Luther, history has illustrated the power of the manifesto, the poster, and the slogan to animate the citizenry and initiate action. Beginning in the 1920s and continuing into

Figure 11: History of Civilization, Zio Ziegler, Las Vegas, 2014

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Marshall Soules the present, the “big three” Mexican muralists—Orozco, Rivera, Siqueiros—used vibrant colours and social realism to inspire revolutionary change. Cynthia Arvide’s Muros Somos: Los Nuevos Muralistas Mexicanos (2017) shows how contemporary Mexican street artists are retrieving the powerful influence of the original muralistas.

An explosion of large-scale pieces through the 1980s and 90s was countered by vigorous anti-graffiti measures in NYC and elsewhere: subway and cargo train yards were surrounded by razor wire, patrolled by guard dogs, monitored with surveillance cameras; trains were “buffed” to remove recent graffiti; writers were fined, given community service, or sent to prison. Increasingly, writers gravitated back to the streets, to design and graphics shops, or into galleries for less hostile conditions. Many artists were drawn towards social improvement projects and began painting social murals, either for free or subsidized by commissions and grants. Throughout this evolution, writers were innovating with typography and letter forms, and borrowing from the history of visual imagery that spoke most cogently to them. Following Cézanne’s Passage The form of layering paper familiar to us as collage or montage has origins in Cézanne's use of passage (pä-säzh)—the interpenetration and overlapping of colour and shape as a compositional technique:

Passage… describes a faceting technique used to break up the contours that define objects or scenes, so that surfaces appear to flow together, blurring the distinctions between solid form and space, foreground and background…. individual elements of the composition are treated as units or tesserae carefully nestled together to form an overall mosaic of form. In this way, passage compresses the picture plane in favor of emphasizing the flat canvas rather than illusionistic perspective. The tonal gradation and textural contrast definitive of passage ultimately served as a precursor to cubism, a technique innovated by Pablo Picasso. (Passage, 2020)

Later adopted and developed by the Cubists, Cézanne's technique found application in the collages of the Dadaists and compositions of the Surrealists. The work of Kurt Schwitters— especially his Merz-pictures—shows a high degree of accomplishment in the artful composition of visual "improvisations" using scraps of paper usually destined for the trash heap (Dietrich, 1993).

Beginning in 1912, the Cubists began to explore the technique of papier collé (from the French coller, meaning to paste or glue), wherein overlapping fragments of newspaper, wallpaper, tickets, packaging, and other detritus were glued to the substrate. Since its inception as an artistic technique, layering fragments of paper has signified a challenge to representational conventions of coherent narrative, and fixed perspective. The subversive subtext of collage and montage was

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Street Art Rising soon adopted by both Dada and Surrealism after 1915. Hannah Höch and John Heartfield are recognized masters of the Dada collage and its close relative montage.

In Montage and Modern Life, Matthew Teitelbaum argues that montage as a technique always incorporates “a degree of narrative breakdown” and “invokes the discontinuous and ruptured as talisman of our century” (7). Distortions of scale and the intrusion of text serve to “extend the idea of the real as something not yet seen.”

The compositional device of dramatic foregrounding provokes the viewer to re-think relations between objects, to re-establish a hierarchy of correspondences. In this sense, among others, montage practice is about radical realignments of power. In escaping the “limits” of the straight photograph by dramatic repositioning various figures and objects, montage suggests new paradigms of authority and influence. (7-8)

Montage is a medium highly suited for street art aspiring to radical realignments of power. When collage and montage is a collective improvisation on urban walls, we see a potent demonstration of using inexpensive mat- erials to promote social ad- justment. How strange and fascinating, then, when the randomly applied layers of paper “happen” to tell a story. Both Dada and Surrealist artists used chance ope- rations and improvisatory techniques to foster the use of the unconscious in their works. Duchamp's ready- mades, or constructions such as The Bride Stripped Bare by Figure 12: In a Foreign Tongue, Rome, 1995 Her Bachelors, Even (The Large Glass) initiate an important exploration of found and improvised art documented by Jencks and Silver in Adhocism (1972). The Surrealist activity known as le cadavre exquis (exquisite corpse) uses contributions by a group of artists to assemble random juxtapositions to subvert rational analysis. This technique allows sub-conscious and random impulses to interact in a collaborative creation. Following closely on the innovations of Cubism, Dada, Surrealism, and the Situationists, a group of French artists calling themselves Les Nouveaux Réalistes assembled found objects, trash, torn posters, images from pop culture into their constructions to show how everyday reality and its

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Marshall Soules objects could be reconfigured to construct a “new reality.” As an avant-garde movement with strong affinities to Pop Art, they fetishized happenstance, chance, and improvisation in the creation of their varied works. Founded in 1960 by Pierre Restany and Yves Klein, the group added additional members Arman (Armand Fernandez), César (Baldaccini), Christo, Gérard Deschamps, François Dufréne, Raymond Hains, Martial Raysse, Niki de Saint- Phalle, Mimmo Rotlla, Daniel Spoerri, Jean Tinguely, and Jacques de la Villegé. Like a “crew” of graffiti artists, Les Nouveaux Réalistes considered themselves to be a “collective singularity” who were associated because of their differences (MAM / Musée d’Art Moderne, 1986). They exhibited together throughout Figure 13: For Mimmo, Rotella: Nepali Romance, Kathmandu, 2014 the 1960s until the group dissolved in 1970. Their fascination with affiches and distressed posters, advertising, and popular culture links their work to the coming explosion of street art. Refus Global: Street Art and Automatism In Égrégore: A History of the Montréal Automatist Movement (1992), Ray Ellenwood quotes Guy Viau on the spirit of revolution that animated the founders of the Automatist movement in 1948:

The story of Automatism begins in a feeling: an obscure and exasperated feeling of revolt against what the rational and mechanical civilization of today is doing to mankind, and to French-Canadians because of a particularly stifling historical situation. But above and beyond that revolt, Automatism is a story of a poetical perception of life and world; a liberation of the powers of imagination and sensitivity. (3)

As the Dadaists had done before them during a previous war, the Automatists rejected false rationality and attempted to replace intention—self-conscious and inauthentic—with what Borduas referred to as “necessity,” those energies beyond the control and manipulation of intention: compulsion, drives, spontaneous inspiration, instincts—the “unpredictable, necessary order of spontaneity” (Borduas, Refus global, p. 20).

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The Downtown Eastside (DTES), a former Skid Road in Vancouver’s logging heyday, is now home to the city’s displaced and troubled refugees jammed up against urban renewal and gentrification. Despite efforts to clean up these disreputable streets, the alleys of the DTES are still rich with the graffiti of the poor and marginal, including those artists-without-galleries who use the walls of buildings as their canvas. To many, this is the work of vandals and vampires, people of the night-time streets, creating without legitimacy, the scourge of the luminous city shining by the sea. Their collective (un)conscious stings the conscience of the hip material culture Vancouver wears elsewhere so stylishly. Graffiti and street art are a cadavre exquis that is both game and game over. With hardly a thought of social decorum or private property, concentrating only on the style of their gesture and its precise placement on the urban canvas, the DTES writers speak out to one another and hope they are over-heard in the din of the city. Their concerns are with housing, safety, food, drugs, health, friends, gentrification, and crime. They are marooned in the lower levels of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. With pressing needs and time so short, they throw up their pieces in garish colours and fragments of paper. On the margins of society, forging a new collective mythology distinguished by its convulsive beauty. “Hand in hand with others thirsting for a better life, no matter how long it takes, regardless of sup- port or persecution, we will joyfully respond to a savage need for liberation” (Refus global 20).

Borduas suggests a way of reading the Automatist work as a “paranoiac Figure 14: A Borduas: Open the Gates, Toronto, 2010 screen”: “a surface which, when stared at for some time, will clarify and fix ghostly shapes” (Comments on Some Current Words, 1949, p. 28). To contemporary street artists, the walls of the city are paranoiac screens in both psychic and material senses. The cops (in the head) are watching! Why is Automatism—both as artistic movement and in its guise as the bastard art of graffiti— relevant today? Let’s go back to the time of the original Refus global. In a letter to Fernand Leduc in 1948, Borduas declared his war on intention: “Intention must be pushed into the background, along with reason. Make way for the intelligence of the senses” (qtd. Nasgaard, p. 54). As the

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Dadaists discovered in their time, our public discourse is a theatre for the corruption of reason and false theatre of intention. People of faith turn to their various beliefs as a refuge from repressive politics and social inequities. Graffiti and street art are a global refusal of this corruption of intention and bastardization of reason, replacing it with a riot of colour and celebration of the archaic and anarchic energy of humans seeking higher ground. And hope. Stencils and Folk Art

Figure 15: Two Stencils, Quito, 2013

Street art is urban folk art. It makes use of “patterns that connect,” the term Carl Schuster used to describe the “patterns of organization underlying traditional arts” (1996, p.9). Reading these pan-cultural messages requires pattern recognition, “foreswearing context in favour of an unflinching look at the designs themselves” (p.9). The checker device, labyrinth, hopscotch, gaming boards, arrows, dots and circles, stars, waves and zigzags, triangles, and all manner of archaic patterning speak across cultures and times to our common humanity. The materials of folk art/street art are not precious; they are serviceable, industrial materials to keep the water out and the rust from accumulating too quickly. (Rust never sleeps and water is the universal solvent.) The yellows and reds of municipal signs and traffic lines suggest a utilitarian desire to get the message across to even the most somnolent and distracted citizens. Stencils are quick, repeatable, and surely at home in the empire of signs. The Némo says, “What interests me is that the is ‘open’: one person will see one thing, another something else” (Manco, p. 6). Or the artist Western Cell Division: “Street stencils are beautiful little booby-traps of information lying in wait; aesthetic gifts left behind as urban folk art, simultaneously revealing and concealing their purpose” (p. 6).

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Graffiti is no longer limited to scratching on the walls of caves or buildings, but now uses marker pens, spray paint, brushes, stencils, cut-outs, stickers, and even light projections. The French technique called pouchoir, writes Tristan Manco, “was an extremely costly and laborious process in which a design was built up with metal stencils, each coloured by hand using gouache paint, creating the illusion of watercolour or oil paintings” (p. 8). This in contrast to the strategic slap- dash of military and cargo cut stencils, all mass production, utility, and high visibility. “Stencils are more self-conscious than the spontaneous tagged graffiti messages or the coded confidence of hip-hop style…. Stencil style is graphically associated with the sort of functional type long found on packaging, and is thereby also associated with authenticity, natural materials and an authoritative message” (Manco, pp. 11-12). Italian fascists used stencils of Il Duce for propaganda. The screen print stencils of Warhol and Rauschenberg deconstructed the materials and techniques of high art in the service of Pop. Banksy, Miss.Tic and others have turned stencils into high(er) art. Stencils provide windows onto their substrate and are integrated into the visual surroundings and textures for maximum efficiency. Placement is strategic and crucial to success. In the making, figure and ground are reversed, like a photo- graphic negative. Arrows indicate direction and force. Lines mark out boun- Figure 16: Boy and Girl, Tona, Vang Vieng, Laos, daries. Consistency is im- Figure 17: Boy, Tona, 2020 portant for the effect of Vientiane, Laos, 2020 repetition and identity. Above all, stencils predetermine pattern and form as a counter-point to the wild expressive gesture of marker and spray can, making matter sing. Street Art Rising In the early dec-ades of the 21st C., street art and graffiti continued its infiltration of the planet’s urban walls, creating anti-environments to comment on all facets of modern existence. For an art form deeply indebted to mod-ernism, coming of age from the 1960s to the late 1990s, the tran- sition to the design houses and art galleries did not end work in the streets. But growing acceptance by aud-iences and critics of the best examples led to a remarkable retrieval of large- scale murals, not so much to promote social change or revolution, but to inspire, uplift, create

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Marshall Soules sustaining visions. Large scale, prominent location, compelling images, vibrant colour, clever symbolism, and humour allow street art to rival the impact of the world’s expensive commercial billboards and murals. In his monumental survey Graffiti World: Street Art from Five Continents (2004), Nicholas Ganz demonstrates conclusively that street art has become a major force in the art world, not only in its own right, but as a global cultural influence. This evolution has been deeply motivated. Commercial media, from print to radio, film, television, and the internet have confronted humans with an ambiguous message: in this best of all possible worlds, thanks to industry and technology, we are facing existential challenges of climate charge, mass migrations, conflict, starvation, pandemics, exploitation, prejudice, and diminishing resources. Many of us suffer from ecological trauma, ac-cording to Rex Wyler, as we witness the true costs of human activity on the natural world and its most vulnerable beings. “I define ecological trauma as the experience of witnessing—consciously or not—the pervasive abuse and destruction of the natural world, of which we are a part, and for which we have a primal affinity” (Wyler, 2019). The psychic burden can be dispiriting. In this emotional climate, messages and images of optimism, inspiration, and interconnection are passages towards hope. Figure 18: Blue Fish, Kathmandu, 2014 Cities of Hope: Two Examples Global street art has its darker messages to be sure. Skulls, skeletons, rats, and weapons are all too common because street artists often want to be realistic with their messages, to provide an alternative vision to the happy talk of advertising, politics, and self-promotion. But street art also plays another role, especially in locations where more bad news is unwelcome. This final section provides examples from two cities—Christchurch, NZ and Hanoi, Vietnam—where street art is consciously used by artists and community leaders to inspire citizens with hope and confidence. In both cities, citizens have experienced devastating tragic events: physical destruction, dislocation, and human casualties are fresh and painful memories. Each city has used a different style of street art to influence the affective climate of the urban scene to transform devastation and loss into an opportunity for healing. There are countless other cities—from Belfast to Paris, Barcelona, Havana, Kathmandu, Toronto, and Vancouver—where street art inspires not despair, but hope.

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Christchurch Street Art In 2010 and 2011, Christchurch, New Zealand and environs experienced massive earthquakes that left over 180 casualties and extensive destruction of the urban center. Psychological impacts were extreme, and it is estimated that over 10,000 people moved away from Christchurch and its suburbs to escape future trauma. As a response, the city of Christchurch needed to rebuild damaged infrastructure, and address the psychological insecurity of its residents. Street art was one way to change the emotional climate of the environment. By 2016, Christchurch had gained a reputation as a city rich with inspiring , gallery exhibitions, and tours of the city’s murals. The Canterbury Museum’s Rise 2014 exhibition (www.streetart.co.nz/rise) attracted 288,000 visitors and established Christchurch’s reputation as a “re-emerging” city.

Figure 19: Red Shoes, Jacob Yikes, Christchurch, 2016

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Figure 20: Maori Blessing, Kevin Ledo, Christchurch, 2016

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Figure 21: Bird Goddess, Fin Dac, Christchurch, NZ, 2016

Figure 22: Rise from the Rubble, Brandon Warrell, Christchurch, NZ, 2016

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Figure 23: Kristen, Askew One (Elliot O’Donnell), Figure 24: Child Hiding Eyes, Christchurch, NZ, 2016 Christchurch, NZ, 2016

Figure 25: She Came from the Stars, , Christchurch, NZ, 2016

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Hanoi, Vietnam Vietnam is a country with a long and vibrant artistic tradition, and a recent tragic experience with conflict from the 1950s to late 1970s. By 1975, when the North Vietnamese communists entered Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City), the country was in physical and psychological ruins. Many of its ancient cities and their cultural treasures had been obliterated, and many survivors lost family members during the conflict. The French, the Americans, and the Vietnamese themselves had devasted a beautiful country and its vibrant culture. In 2007, Vietnamese journalist Nguyen Thu Thúy won an architectural prize to transform 3.85 km of the 6 km Red River dike into the world’s longest continuous mosaic—the Hanoi Ceramic Mosaic Mural (or Hanoi Ceramic Road). Her goal was to reinvigorate the urban center and bring various communities together through a public art project in time for the Millennial Anniversary of the city in 2011.

The project was supported at the beginning by the Ford Foundation, and later by numerous international cultural centers located in Hanoi. Vietnamese artists used tesserae from the nearby village of Bát Tràng to create decorative patterns from different periods of Vietnamese history, works, images of Hanoi, and children’s drawings. In 2010, the wall was included in the Guinness Book of World Records as the “World’s largest ceramic mosaic.” Additional segments of the wall were added in 2017 and 2019, since the bare concrete walls of the dike were being covered with graffiti and advertisements. Below, a selection of details from the Hanoi Ceramic Mosaic Mural I photographed in February 2020. It is a truly monumental construction designed to heal a country and its people—to inspire hope—after decades of conflict.

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Marshall Soules Selections from the Hanoi Mosaic Wall, 2020

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Figure 26: Selections of Hanoi Mosaic Wall, 2020

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la Baron Gallery de Vancouver octobre 2011-avril 2012. Pierre Gauvreau: Passeur de modernité. (K. Dorion-Coupal, H. Dionne & R. Ellenwood, Trans.) Fides / Musée de la Civilisation. Soules, M. (2007). Urban wallpaper tour 1990-2000. Website. http://marshallsoules.ca/urban/wallpaper.htm

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Wilson, J. & Kelling, G. (1982, March). Broken windows: The police and neighborhood safety. The Atlantic. https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/1982/03/broken- windows/304465/ Wyler, R. (2019). Ecological trauma and common addiction. Rex Wyler website. www.rexweyler.ca/ecologue/2019/6/11/ecological-trauma-and-common-addiction Yikes, J. (2020). Jacob Yikes Website: http://www.planetyikes.com/muralsandgraffiti

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