Peppermint

*this is a response i wrote to someone inquiring about the politics of selling photos i have taken of graffiti.
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you mean its not black or white?

sure, someone might not like it, and in that case i would happily stop selling what one or two limited edition photos i had of their work, but in my opinion (and it is an opinion) such a viewpoint is shortsighted, because most graffiti artists don’t have the means to sell their work anyway, and graffiti art in general is extremely misunderstood and underappreciated and a business such as mine, that showcases a large variety of work from all over (and i’m not doing it for the money, trust me, i’m barely scraping by) contributes a huge amount to increasing awareness of and appreciation of graffiti art. more is more.

not to mention i am not just taking a picture of a piece of art in most instances, i am adding my photography and framing skills to take in background and context-to show the beauty of the urban environment, and provide the viewer with the experience of urban art in context. it’s the best way i know to share my passion, to show people what they would never see or even notice walking by it in the street, let alone walk for hours on end in dodgy ghettos and under bridges habitated by sketchy bums.

ultimately, if you’re that possessive of your artwork, put it on a canvas and sell it. if you spray paint it on the side of a wall, it becomes public property, and you’ve lost whatever rights to it you could have had. to me graffiti art in essence is about a lack of ownership, it’s about reclaiming public space, regardless of legality so to protest someone’s wanting to preserve and share that moment, bound to be brief as they are painted over so quickly most of the time, seems wrong to me.

so that’s how i feel about it. passionately. and at the end of the day you have to ask yourself what you think is right. because there is no official answer. and anyone that tells you otherwise is wrong

“i’m afraid of nice girls,” he said. an enigma, well planned, waiting to see him i fought butterflies, having forgotten what something real feels like. it was fake too, like the others, i suppose, but less so. necessarily there were boring moments, acting through the absence to see if it came back soon enough, and it did, at least for the first two weeks. and there wouldn’t be much more than that-8 days for wishful thinking, and afterward maybe one would see a little better. a matter of avoidance, “i learned it in politics school,” he said, though he’d never been to any school at all, as far as i knew. “life is too political to follow your heart.” still true, the rules got annoying after awhile, but that didn’t change them. with a few hypotheses to replace them, i proceeded, teetering. or shuffling perhaps, a bad imitation at casual, i replaced it with a cynical enthusiasm and found it worked better.

Buenos Aires is a city of many names, roughly translated as good air, you can’t see the smog, but you’ll get sick when you leave.

A city of dog shit and taxi cabs, the cutting edge of graffiti art and fashion design. A city with a language all its own-they made it in the jails, in the the tenements and on the streets, where they call your name as you walk by. “oh my god,” they say. “where are you from?” and soon it doesn’t seem to matter. Sometimes you forget what language you’re speaking in but the words have yet to lose their value.

You get the jokes and they are impressed. Two weeks: a moment in time, fossilized, and you dance all night, thinking-you never have to go home if you can stay awake.

i text like a demolition specialist. afterward they take it to the dump. tons of bricks which are theoretically valuable but they are just stuck. in a pile of trash one could call history.

in the pictures we took he looked crazy. crazy and beautiful, like i was seventeen again, only i never saw him cry. old enough now to recognize the warning signs, and taste the weakness for what it is- this time it only lasted two weeks. and if i ever had a bottom line it was honesty. everything else i could justify…but he lied once about something that didn’t matter and there was the line. beyond better judgement-he clung to me like a savior and i loved every minute of it, kissing him- mouth to mouth he gasped for air and i felt justified somehow. preserving a soul which didn’t want saving- that found it romantic to be beyond hope-it made his writing better.

i have recently had some trouble with men. a short string of accidents that didn’t turn out to be the good kind, but rather more of the slightly embarrassing variety. with a rusty aftertaste in my mouth, i waited for phone calls from strangers who live in a city four hours away from mine and in my heart of hearts i still believed in love strongly enough to be a fool for the chance. they never called, which is predictable. instead of stalking them i stumbled upon the relationship aisle in barnes and noble, somewhat unintentionally, finally desperate enough to suspect that games might be better than the real thing i actually listened to the women whose lives are made up of carefully thought out lies designed to make men want them to have their babies. not that i want children, but i am kind of lonely, and i like having sex.

so i faced the wall of horror, and i took notes. for instance, you should never, under any circumstances, call a man.. no matter how you feel you should act mildly interested…make them beg for sex…if you don’t have a life, pretend to. there are more, but i’ve forgotten them.

despite my rejection of the premise that one should -pretend- to be anything, i do think we could all learn from the social manipulators of this world, blond hair and big tits or not. for instance, i do agree that HAVING A LIFE is a good idea…i don’t think you should call a man very often-they’re skittish creatures really, and one has to be careful not to scare them off…you should not call someone who has not called you back either for that matter, it’s a bit stalkish and it’s best to steer clear of anything that might make them think you’re the obsessive type… make fun of them-it’s how men show affection, plus it makes them want to impress you, which is cute…act really distant and uninterested for a while, and then tell them a heartrending story about your childhood.

i’m sure there’s more but i find myself not caring. “another one bites the dust,” i say instead, and consider becoming a lesbian. laughing, we decide men are the third worst thing in the world, after world hunger, and babies, and ride our bikes to the local bar to pick up a few.

starting a business is hard.

which i think is a good thing, because doing the things that are hard forces you to grow. running your own business is about being a whole package. its about creativity and perseverance and productivity and marketing and accounting and sales. its about believing in yourself.

if you’d asked me where i would be now 6 months ago i couldn’t have told you. i had no clue. i only knew that i couldn’t come home without a plan. i couldn’t go back without something to drive me forward. i couldn’t spend another year just trying to get through the day. a plan was given to me and i took it. i didn’t think too hard about what it meant because it wasn’t mine. it was there and it sounded pretty good and so i came home.

as someone else’s plan drifted farther away i spent the next few months making my own plan. i didn’t know how to sew, but i had vision and i wanted to put it on a tee shirt. at first i just envisioned it as a hobby; something i would do on the side and give to my friends as christmas presents. but as the easy plan turned to shit i was forced to decide how badly i wanted to have this business. was i willing to risk failure; was i willing to put myself out there for the market to judge. by that point i had already made a bunch of stuff, and i didn’t want to get a job, so i did it.

the reason i had come to portland for was no longer there. it was an excuse i gladly took and when it was no longer there i realized it had never really been the reason. the reason was i had outgrown my hometown. i had lived in a city of 10 million people where i didn’t speak the language and i had loved it. the graffiti, the strange faces, the crowded bars, the subway. i never thought i liked big cities before then but maybe i was just afraid of feeling alone. whatever the reason, i wasn’t sure bellingham could satisfy me anymore. or challenge me, perhaps more importantly. and so i stayed, and i started my own business, which is still really more of an experiment than an establishment, but it gets better everyday, and with it maybe i do too.

i still don’t know where i will be a year from now. fashion design is not the end all for me and i can see myself doing a lot of things in my lifetime. but i also know that i really want this, and i am not going to give up before i fail.

an unruly and haughty child i was diagnosed as clinically depressed at the age of 12. i taught myself manners at 19. at 21 i learned to smile. i chased happiness with a stick tapping on walls and steel toed boots i searched my moods fluttering i peered down the drains searching the faces of strangers to evidence.

once i saw my angel; an 8 year old girl in a pick up truck with eyes like marlon brando. i was wearing my purple polka dotted tights at the time, which i now consider lucky.

i kept my ideas in an incensed notebook, along with my wishes which i saved, diligently, for happiness to use at her discretion.

happiness, that blue-toothed goddess from new orleans who i’d given two paper bags once (in exchange for “eyes like waterfalls”). she’d had wet curly hair, like a sick poodle, and her pants were falling down to reveal an electric blue thong. it matched her teeth. she was looking for a loud white truck which had her money; she wasn’t ashamed of the form she’d taken, looking for latter day saints and the nonjudgemental she’d called me honey.

he was selling a plate on the subway. in buenos aires, people sell all sorts of things on the subway-like trash digging-the economic crash has rendered it a respected profession.

he was selling a plate on the subway. just one plate. it was old and plastic and scratched. it was blue.

just one plate. people sell all sorts of things on the subway-children’s toys, phone cards, pencil packs, ankle braces. but all these things were new, and useful. there was more than one of them.

he stood there, with his blue plastic plate, his voice loud and persuasive he told us all why we should want the plate-what we could use it for, how nice it would look sitting at our table, how sturdy the plastic was- how it would never break. maybe he was crazy; maybe he was counting on our pity-our discomfort-to make the sale. but no one bought the plate- it was just too weird. everyone would look at you, and how would you act? buying a old plastic plate from a madman. looking back, i wish i had bought that plate. it would have made a great souveneir. but i didn’t. i made a joke to my friend, quietly, and i avoided his eyes just like everyone else. and so he went on to the next train car, to make his pitch, where maybe someone recognized a treasure for what it was.

i wander around cities in which i would otherwise have taken a taxi, in these same cities, with those same tourists, i search for those same buildings they drove by, with the meter ticking by, looking for their hotel sign. I look for things that will make these buildings worth less-evidence of collectives and mad genius gone by-scribbled love notes, exposed piping, paint splatters and cracks; political stencils and cartoon graffiti…giddy and meticulous, I take six photos of one graffiti and he waits impatiently as i bend and reach, hopping perhaps, “why would you want to take a picture of graffiti,” he asked, and there was an answer but he didn’t hear it…

there are many different ways to know a city.

to explore a city alone is to stop whenever you want, to linger in doorways or coffeeshops, to follow all your whims without debate. to find a little magic, maybe, in your own way-still a tourist but a little smaller. less abrasive without your language to interrupt theirs, a series of conversations flowing together so that its almost one noise in your head, and if you don´t listen too closely it´s more of a feeling than a language.

clutching the remnants of my valuables, umbrella raised i poke through the streets with my camera and i wonder how much i would care without the ability to document it…i make a part of this city mine. i share the secrets it tells me with my friends that never leave searching for something that doesn´t fit, or makes me laugh; something definitive or bittersweet i read the love letters of its citizenry, head tilted, earnestly.

i am not an extremist and so i should agree that historical landmarks should be left alone, white picket fences, but the truth is i don´t give a damn. there is enough landscape most of us pretend to enjoy, but it doesn´t do anything anymore. and maybe we are reinventing the surprise…the tiny messages, the cultural satire, the forbidden art around the next corner-these are the unpredictable though small rewards of revaluation. of considering we may be wrong, of considering we may be right.

there are many different ways to explore a city-and this is mine.

busty and olive skinned, tiffany´s wardrobe consisted of a series of slips layered alternately. she refused to wear shoes on the dirty streets of large cities and cut her hair compulsively whenever she was bored or restless. she loved to cook, licking her fingers and sampling the food. she didn´t like planning, or safety she was compulsive and reckless at times. her ideas about life changed often. she complained alot, but she´d usually laugh afterwards.

tiffany was the only friend i ever had that liked to sit around and make art. she was also possibly the only friend i ever had who thought my writing was brilliant, which was unwarrented. my writing was pretty, romantic, and generally confined to the limit of three paragraphs, at which point i got bored. tiffany was fickle too, like i was, and this quality we shared which brought us together would also be the one to separate us. always looking for new friends, new adventures, tiffany wasn´t a person prone to satisfaction. things were hard for her that other people found easy, but she was afraid of very little. she was not afraid of being raped, or of not having any money. she was not afraid of leaving everything behind, or of being considered a slut. i admired tiffany foremost for her youth, and a courage we often come to consider silly in old age. she was 18, i was 21. i was young, but did not feel it. i did not do cocaine or wear poofy dresses; i did not consider myself dashing; i did not have sex with strangers. i was cynical, pessimistic, and borderline apathetic, but this did not stop tiffany from believing in me. perhaps it did not stop her from not needing to.