From up close it looked like a random scribble. There wasn’t anything unusual about that. I see a lot of random scribbles on benches and walls and gas meters. Most of the time they’re done in pen although sometimes they’re done in paint. And I always wonder when they’re done in paint why the person who made them even bothered. Then I think maybe they were practicing. Or maybe they’re gang signs, although that seems unlikely. The random scribbles are so, well, random, and so generic I can’t imagine any gang being able to identify them as their own.
“Is this one of ours?”
“Beats me. They all look like that.”
The random scribbles, I always think, lack more than purpose. They lack passion, intent, a desire to share something.
And then for some reason I crossed the street and looked back, and I was glad I did. What looked like a random scribble turned out to be something a lot more interesting. Maybe it was still someone practicing, or maybe its distinctive look was intentional. The mark at the end certainly seemed to signal more to come.
Looking back I could see passion, intent, and a desire to share something, and I was glad I gave what I thought was nothing another look.
I love what you show us, Chris.
It’s knowing that you’re here to see it that makes it worthwhile.