Svan

May brought me more wonderful chaos put in form of art made from tags, stickers and the wear of time. Not behind a payed tickets or glass in a gallery, but outside in piss smelling alleyways where any one, artist or not, can synthesise the chaos of their own life.

I wonder why I find the most beautiful things in the strangest of places. Why the chipped erosion or the degraded tag moves something in me. Probably because…

I honor my humanity with art.

Each tear remind me I’m human. Reminds me art is all around in the overlooked cracks, trash cans, and any other place people avoid. Reminds me of the lasting human desire to mark we were here. To shout at empty vastness holding hope we are seen.

I like hearing the voices of untold stories in the rips, tears and wears they carry, more than articulate paint strokes. I like the amalgamated art piece that comes out with strangers contributions. A invisible connection no one will ever know.

Maybe it’s the gathered, sometimes incidental, story that screams at me passing by. The confidence of it to confront me and stop me dead in my tracks.