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At its loudest, graffiti writing offers a window into how lettering uses shape, line, and color to communicate. As Jenkins puts it:. I am different. I stand out. I am the best. Battle me and you will be defeated. Test me at your own risk. I wish I had pictures of it. Starting in junior high school, Lady Pink would escape out her bedroom window in Queens, jump 10 feet to the ground with a bag of paint, and meet her friends in subway tunnels in the middle of the night—then sneak back in before her mother woke up. The feminist movement was catching up with me. Us girls were busy proving we could do anything the guys could do and there was no stopping us. Every time I went to a lay-up, it was trial and error. I came close to getting caught many times; there were a lot of chases, but I was never actually caught. Jon One became obsessed with graffiti writing while commuting to high school every day. He trained himself by imitating their tags. I used to fill my notebooks and schoolbooks with their tags. Decades after its golden age, graffiti art has become commercialized. Events Innovation Festival The Grill. He is the co-founder of the seminal hip-hop magazine ego trip, as well as co-author of the best-selling biography of Eminem, The Way I Am. Henry Chalfant , Sacha Jenkins. Late s New York City was bankrupt and its streets dirty and dangerous. But thecity had a wild, raw energy that made it the crucible for the birth of rap culture and graffiti. Graffiti writers worked in extremely tough conditions: uncollected garbage, darkness, cramped spaces, and the constant threat of police raids, assault by security staff and attacks by rival crews. It was not unlike practicing performance art in a war zone. Yet during the fertile years of the late s and s they evolved their art from stylized signatures to full-blown Technicolor dreamscapes. The Most Infamous Graffiti Artists Of s New York City

Size: Extent: pp. Illustrations: Publication date: 8 September ISBN: Out of stock. Add to Wish List. The story of the birth of the New York subway graffiti movement in the words of the legendary graffiti artists who were at the heart of the scene See Inside. Next Painting Now. Related Topics. Graffiti New York Street Art. Further Details. The writers browsed the exhibition and then deployed themselves around the neighborhood to tag the walls. Karp was not unprepared. From under his tweed jacket the nose of his holstered pistol was discreetly but palpably visible. Intervale Avenue is named for the valley that runs through the neighborhood, so the elevated track lies on a trestle high above the street. I knew that on weekends the trains ran about every ten minutes,. In there was a severe shortage of graffiti on the subways due to a major cleanup effort on the part of the MTA, and much of the art, both good and bad, had been buffed. Throughout that year, I spent my photography time wandering the Bronx, shooting walls. In ,. Using a technique I had learned to create a panorama image while siting sculpture, I took about a dozen. Still, there were professional high schools such as Art and Design and Music and Art that, not surprisingly but rather ironically, were attended by many graffiti writers. They gathered each day in the cafeterias, planning their nightly exploits in the yards. My first serious expedition to the Bronx to hunt for trains on the elevated lines took place in the summer of One weekend I set out on the uptown 2 train from the 96th Street and Broadway station near my home. As the train climbed out of the tunnel at 3rd Avenue and th Street in the Bronx, I saw a long string of trains parked for the weekend on the center track. Looking out the window, I could. I developed the film at the one-hour photo booth in Grand Central, and, once in my studio, I began to cut and splice each painted subway car. This was the launch of my graffiti collection, which grew to over images of subway art before I stopped shooting seven years later. My climb back up onto the platform provoked curious and somewhat disdainful stares from the waiting passengers. I lingered at Intervale station that day, applying the shooting technique I had just used to some additional pieces on trains as they stopped on the opposite downtown. I met some of the writers who were responsible for this renaissance for the very first time. My photos impressed these young artists, especially when they saw that I had captured their work. The relationships that grew out of these meetings enhanced my ability to photograph masterpieces and to catch them while they were still fresh. I was happy to give photos to the artists whose work I caught on film. Graffiti writers took advantage of that moment to paint undisturbed, day and night, for almost two weeks. This was perhaps the only time that writers were able to paint trains as if they were in a studio, with plenty of time to work carefully and make corrections. Other writers took advantage of the moment and created masterpieces and burners, making a very good year. In any other circumstance, conditions in which artists created these paintings were not favorable — the dirt, darkness, cramped space, police raids, worker assaults, beat-downs, and paint thefts from rival crews — and rendered the whole process more like practicing performance art in a war zone. In that same spring of , a business executive named Sam Esses brought together the top writers of the moment, funding a workshop for them to paint canvases. I read War and Peace while waiting for trains on the Intervale Avenue station platform. This coincided with unprecedented press coverage and interest from art-world people, laying the foundation for the international movement we know today. In , I enrolled in Manhattan College, a second-rate school where you went to become a beer major. After school I worked behind the deli counter at the Daitch Shopwell supermarket down the block, where I endured the constant kvetching of old ladies who demanded I slice their lox thinner. I left graffiti unfulfilled. I spent my high school years trying to become the king of the Broadway line, spray painting my alias, Terror , on enough trains to garner the respect of my peers, but no crown. Collectively, we took over the line. By my senior year, as I approached my 18th birthday, my drug abuse that had begun with weed in tenth grade had escalated to mescaline, acid, and barbiturates. After a two-week binge, I became emaciated, delusional, and psychotic. My family-appointed shrink recommended my immediate placement in a controlled environment. Gradually, pieces began to appear that drew inspiration from LSDinspired rock posters from the late s. Viewing the wild, psychedelic colors and images culled from underground comics made me feel reconnected. Even their signatures showed an attention to their aerosol ancestors. One tag stood out among the rest: Zephyr. The execution of his signature combined elements of letters modified. Most writers quit when they turned 16 and could be charged as adults for committing a kiddie crime. Graffiti brought me back from the dead and I chose a new tag to trumpet my resurrection. Thus, in the winter of , I christened myself J. My purpose for contacting him was to score some four. Things changed when a new stock boy started working in my supermarket. We eyeballed each other with an unknown sense of familiarity. Writing on trains, a juveniledelinquency phase we outgrew, provided the impetus for a more adult-oriented, rekindled friendship. The 1 train ran across the elevation directly outside my classroom window and I made sure to grab the seat with the best view of the train. My classmates and the teacher stared at me wondering what I searched for every day in the great beyond. But I found no links to the past. I imagined them skateboarding on acid at the Central Park bandshell. One night, after drinking a few 40s of Bud, Wesley and I grabbed a few cans of spray paint on a whim and drove to the 1 yard. We wrote our names on the corrugated steel fence that separated the train yard from Gaelic Park, the Irish soccer stadium adjacent to it. Nobody suspected grown men of engaging in such childish antics. By the time I got him on the phone the acid had sold out. The subject quickly turned to graffiti. He knew a lot about history, mine included. I invited him up to the 1 yard for a bombing mission. He agreed and brought his partner Mackie. Something went awry and we never got to write together, but an alliance was forged, and my ancient crew gained two modern members. Ammo and I continued to destroy the 1 yard throughout and We felt old and embarrassed, like they belonged there, but our years dictated more maturity. Ammo and I knew the lay of the land by the time the transit strike hit in the spring of I convinced Use 2, who retired in after kinging the 1 line, to return, a big event for those who knew their history. Hitting the yard during the strike proved a little bit anti-climactic. Total darkness, with the exception of some sparse moonlight, limited our. Seen introduced me to Billy at that show, possibly the greatest style master the culture ever produced. He represented the golden era —77 brilliantly and prolifically. A humble and somewhat timid guy, he graciously signed our black books. We took the train to the end of the line, waited for the car to empty, and then severed the panel from the train—the graffiti equivalent of a paleontologist discovering a perfectly preserved mastodon encased in a block of ice. I wondered if the voice of the ghetto was alive, dead, or lost in the prison system. As I carried the subway panel home I realized how much I loved not knowing. Graffiti writers created a clandestine illegal culture and made up rules along the way. Heroes and villains recognized by those within the culture remained a trade secret. Invisible artists striving for fame created the mystique that drew me into the fold. When Zephyr alerted me that an older cat named Henry, who had been taking pictures of trains for a few years, would be having a show at OK Harris gallery in Soho, I had mixed emotions about going. But graffiti writers by nature crave attention and recognition. Curiosity won out and Ammo and I drove down to Soho. We arrived early and ran into Zephyr, who introduced us to Henry, a 40ish professional looking guy clearly out of his element. Henry politely introduced us to Lady Pink and her boyfriend Erni, and we all walked into the gallery together. The turnout reminded me of the opening scene from The Warriors, where every gang in the city shows up to hear Cyrus speak in the park. Watching writers comment on photos of their whole cars hanging on a gallery wall seemed surreal. Hopefully the stories of Iz the Wiz, Kase 2, Dondi, and others will be studied with the same reverence given to Haring and Basquiat, who drew their inspiration from these comparatively unknown soldiers. Several confrontations occurred that day. One escalated when two writers sharing the same name faced off; the weaker of the two lifted his shirt to reveal a pistol tucked into his waistband. Another, a lot closer to home, resulted in Ammo getting sucker-punched in the jaw and robbed by a tandem of writers. He narrowly escaped getting stomped out by a third accomplice. Beef came with the territory. Henry arrived on that day, and his immersion in the culture, as anthropologist and documentarian, changed history. Artists craving his photos would try to outdo each other to get his attention, raising the stylistic bar considerably. As Henry and others helped illuminate a culture that had flourished in darkness, the world began to see things from another perspective. Graffiti got packaged up with hip hop and exported to Europe, where life imitated art. A repackaged media version of our history made protagonists out of bit players, while. Funny enough, in those days, any Caucasian middle-aged guy in plain clothes seemed to me to be an undercover cop or, at the very worst, an anti-graffiti squad member. Now picture this as I did, my room littered with the evidence of hundreds of spray paint cans that I could not produce receipts for , the smear of tunnel DNA, and my preparatory full-color drawings on deck for the cars I planned to create. Imagine how naked I felt as Henry extended his handshake to me, dressed in plain clothes, which made him a dead ringer for — you guessed it — a New York City transit authority anti-graffiti squad officer. You heard right. I was reluctant as I took a second look at this man, but I extended my hand to meet his while imagining how Crash or Erni would have dinner with some of my Goodfellas friends. At first we talked about process, where I understandably might have mislead him with junk info, but then we talked about his upcoming OK Harris show, and that was inviting enough being that Fab Five Freddy and I had a show coming up at White Columns. To understand our first meeting, you have to first slip yourself into my shoes leading up to You see, I was a covert introverted subway painter who had a heavy price on my head for most of the late s, the peak of the subway whole car era. At that point, my work had graced the surfaces of close to entire subway cars citywide. Municipal headhunters ground their teeth on how to stop my influence on other graffiti writers in the making, and for that, I kept my cards close to my chest during this very exhilarating yet frantic era. Through hearsay Crash found out where I lived, and as happenstance would have it, he asked me for a chance meeting with Henry at my home. At first I declined out of suspicion, but then caved into the nudging at my lucky shoulder shortly after. Something was abrewing. The year might be remembered by many far and in between as a pivotal flash point, both good and bad, for many cultural platforms above and below ground. Above: New York in particular was popping on all cylinders from the expulsions of champagne at Studio 54 to gunshots on the boulevard. The city was still reeling in from being cast out for dead by Gerald Ford, the Bronx was still burning, we had just lost Lennon to a shot. Krylon paints, anchored in Columbus, Ohio, was one of the three major players in the spray bomb wars, and had just released an exciting series of tone colors. These paints could not have arrived at a better time and place for the New York subway artists, particularly for the Wildstylers whom had already exhausted their color palettes. Little did I know that day that Henry extended more than just his hand,. The lights came on simultaneously in the subway yards, within the art world, and for the new kids on the block. Training Days: The Subway Artists Then and Now - Henry Chalfant, Sacha Jenkins - Google книги

But writers had the upper hand then. You could get away with so much. We had our own world. The only time Jean-Michel Basquiat ever went to a train yard was with me. We bombed the entire train. Those were the good old days This is my future. It was an artistic adventure. Having a voice is having power, and this was more fulfilling than anything else. Dez, Skeme, Pore, leaving the 3 yard, Harlem, Some were black yards and others were white. I never saw a white person in the 3 yard. It was geographical if anything. Henry Chalfant has photographed images of subway art. I had to go along the catwalk that track workers used. There was no way to tell when the next train would come. But I took my shots, with my knees shaking. Topics Photography. Street art Art. Still it's good for a history lesson and will probably be enjoyed for years to come. Sep 19, Lindsey. I owned this book for almost ten years before actually reading it. Feb 11, J rated it it was ok. For its time, it may have been something. Now reading it, it feels a bit. Driving down some of freeways in LA and walking down some side streets on Melrose, I've seen better work. Even some in Tuscon, AZ was better. Choice pieces well it's alright. Jan 09, Josh rated it really liked it Shelves: graffiti. Vanjotzy rated it it was amazing Feb 22, Raquel Cepeda rated it it was amazing May 18, Ian Leightz rated it really liked it Jan 24, John rated it really liked it Jan 15, Dave rated it it was amazing Nov 29, David rated it really liked it Jul 13, Matt Spahr rated it it was amazing Jul 06, Sean Elwood rated it really liked it Jul 28, Barry Elliott rated it really liked it Jul 11, Nathan Jones rated it it was amazing Apr 09, Toni rated it liked it Jul 22, Bryce rated it it was amazing Sep 07, Phle rated it really liked it Feb 08, Jon Kennard rated it liked it Apr 04, BC1GR rated it really liked it Jan 31, Jack rated it liked it Aug 02, Renato rated it liked it May 09, Franz Schuier rated it really liked it Nov 25, Anja rated it really liked it Feb 04, Mina rated it it was amazing Jun 04, Zoom rated it really liked it Dec 26, There are no discussion topics on this book yet. Readers also enjoyed. About Henry Chalfant. Henry Chalfant. Books by Henry Chalfant. Escape the Present with These 24 Historical Romances. You know the saying: There's no time like the present In that case, we can't Read more Trivia About Spraycan Art. No trivia or quizzes yet. Welcome back.

Book Launch: Training Days by Henry Chalfant & Sacha Jenkins – POWERHOUSE Arena

In there was a severe shortage of graffiti on the subways due to a major cleanup effort on the part of the MTA, and much of the art, both good and bad, had been buffed. Throughout that year, I spent my photography time wandering the Bronx, shooting walls. In ,. Using a technique I had learned to create a panorama image while siting sculpture, I took about a dozen. Still, there were professional high schools such as Art and Design and Music and Art that, not surprisingly but rather ironically, were attended by many graffiti writers. They gathered each day in the cafeterias, planning their nightly exploits in the yards. My first serious expedition to the Bronx to hunt for trains on the elevated lines took place in the summer of One weekend I set out on the uptown 2 train from the 96th Street and Broadway station near my home. As the train climbed out of the tunnel at 3rd Avenue and th Street in the Bronx, I saw a long string of trains parked for the weekend on the center track. Looking out the window, I could. I developed the film at the one-hour photo booth in Grand Central, and, once in my studio, I began to cut and splice each painted subway car. This was the launch of my graffiti collection, which grew to over images of subway art before I stopped shooting seven years later. My climb back up onto the platform provoked curious and somewhat disdainful stares from the waiting passengers. I lingered at Intervale station that day, applying the shooting technique I had just used to some additional pieces on trains as they stopped on the opposite downtown. I met some of the writers who were responsible for this renaissance for the very first time. My photos impressed these young artists, especially when they saw that I had captured their work. The relationships that grew out of these meetings enhanced my ability to photograph masterpieces and to catch them while they were still fresh. I was happy to give photos to the artists whose work I caught on film. Graffiti writers took advantage of that moment to paint undisturbed, day and night, for almost two weeks. This was perhaps the only time that writers were able to paint trains as if they were in a studio, with plenty of time to work carefully and make corrections. Other writers took advantage of the moment and created masterpieces and burners, making a very good year. In any other circumstance, conditions in which artists created these paintings were not favorable — the dirt, darkness, cramped space, police raids, worker assaults, beat- downs, and paint thefts from rival crews — and rendered the whole process more like practicing performance art in a war zone. In that same spring of , a business executive named Sam Esses brought together the top writers of the moment, funding a workshop for them to paint canvases. I read War and Peace while waiting for trains on the Intervale Avenue station platform. This coincided with unprecedented press coverage and interest from art-world people, laying the foundation for the international movement we know today. In , I enrolled in Manhattan College, a second-rate school where you went to become a beer major. After school I worked behind the deli counter at the Daitch Shopwell supermarket down the block, where I endured the constant kvetching of old ladies who demanded I slice their lox thinner. I left graffiti unfulfilled. I spent my high school years trying to become the king of the Broadway line, spray painting my alias, Terror , on enough trains to garner the respect of my peers, but no crown. Collectively, we took over the line. By my senior year, as I approached my 18th birthday, my drug abuse that had begun with weed in tenth grade had escalated to mescaline, acid, and barbiturates. After a two-week binge, I became emaciated, delusional, and psychotic. My family-appointed shrink recommended my immediate placement in a controlled environment. Gradually, pieces began to appear that drew inspiration from LSDinspired rock posters from the late s. Viewing the wild, psychedelic colors and images culled from underground comics made me feel reconnected. Even their signatures showed an attention to their aerosol ancestors. One tag stood out among the rest: Zephyr. The execution of his signature combined elements of letters modified. Most writers quit when they turned 16 and could be charged as adults for committing a kiddie crime. Graffiti brought me back from the dead and I chose a new tag to trumpet my resurrection. Thus, in the winter of , I christened myself J. My purpose for contacting him was to score some four. Things changed when a new stock boy started working in my supermarket. We eyeballed each other with an unknown sense of familiarity. Writing on trains, a juveniledelinquency phase we outgrew, provided the impetus for a more adult-oriented, rekindled friendship. The 1 train ran across the elevation directly outside my classroom window and I made sure to grab the seat with the best view of the train. My classmates and the teacher stared at me wondering what I searched for every day in the great beyond. But I found no links to the past. I imagined them skateboarding on acid at the Central Park bandshell. One night, after drinking a few 40s of Bud, Wesley and I grabbed a few cans of spray paint on a whim and drove to the 1 yard. We wrote our names on the corrugated steel fence that separated the train yard from Gaelic Park, the Irish soccer stadium adjacent to it. Nobody suspected grown men of engaging in such childish antics. By the time I got him on the phone the acid had sold out. The subject quickly turned to graffiti. He knew a lot about history, mine included. I invited him up to the 1 yard for a bombing mission. He agreed and brought his partner Mackie. Something went awry and we never got to write together, but an alliance was forged, and my ancient crew gained two modern members. Ammo and I continued to destroy the 1 yard throughout and We felt old and embarrassed, like they belonged there, but our years dictated more maturity. Ammo and I knew the lay of the land by the time the transit strike hit in the spring of I convinced Use 2, who retired in after kinging the 1 line, to return, a big event for those who knew their history. Hitting the yard during the strike proved a little bit anti-climactic. Total darkness, with the exception of some sparse moonlight, limited our. Seen introduced me to Billy at that show, possibly the greatest style master the culture ever produced. He represented the golden era —77 brilliantly and prolifically. A humble and somewhat timid guy, he graciously signed our black books. We took the train to the end of the line, waited for the car to empty, and then severed the panel from the train—the graffiti equivalent of a paleontologist discovering a perfectly preserved mastodon encased in a block of ice. I wondered if the voice of the ghetto was alive, dead, or lost in the prison system. As I carried the subway panel home I realized how much I loved not knowing. Graffiti writers created a clandestine illegal culture and made up rules along the way. Heroes and villains recognized by those within the culture remained a trade secret. Invisible artists striving for fame created the mystique that drew me into the fold. When Zephyr alerted me that an older cat named Henry, who had been taking pictures of trains for a few years, would be having a show at OK Harris gallery in Soho, I had mixed emotions about going. But graffiti writers by nature crave attention and recognition. Curiosity won out and Ammo and I drove down to Soho. We arrived early and ran into Zephyr, who introduced us to Henry, a 40ish professional looking guy clearly out of his element. The story of the birth of the New York subway graffiti movement in the words of the legendary graffiti artists who were at the heart of the scene. Also available as an eBook from iTunes , Amazon. Here are authentic first-person accounts from the graffiti writers and artists whose creative genius fuelled the earliest flowering of the movement in late s and early s New York. In the late s, New York City was bankrupt, dirty and dangerous. Born on these grimy streets, graffiti rapidly made its mark. Individually interviewed for this book by Sacha Jenkins, they reveal an authentic, unparalleled insight into the golden age of graffiti. Format: PLC no jacket. Size: Other Editions 1. Friend Reviews. To see what your friends thought of this book, please sign up. To ask other readers questions about Spraycan Art , please sign up. Lists with This Book. This book is not yet featured on Listopia. Community Reviews. Showing Average rating 4. Rating details. More filters. Sort order. Start your review of Spraycan Art. Sep 01, Vinayak Hegde rated it really liked it. A sequel of sorts to Subway Art and Style wars documentary , the book documents the thoughts of graffiti writers from across the world. It illustrates the different styles and motivations of street artists from around the world. Sep 14, Rolf rated it it was amazing Shelves: art. Feb 08, Rdl rated it it was amazing. One of the most important BOOK ever. Plain simple. Jun 02, Laura rated it really liked it Shelves: art , graffiti , stree-art. I've owned this book for years and never managed to get around to reading it until last week. This book has really dated but when the book released I can just imagine how cool it would of been to look through. Still it's good for a history lesson and will probably be enjoyed for years to come. Sep 19, Lindsey. I owned this book for almost ten years before actually reading it. Feb 11, J rated it it was ok. For its time, it may have been something.

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