Writing, on the Wall
There’s a small Venn diagram where the words urban exploring and respected profession overlap. I’ll use the term respected profession in air quotes here. The small intersection squeezed between two circles was my first job out of college. The job was technically called “Homeless Youth Coordinator”, but it’s real role was more similar to a census tracker for unhoused youth.
At the time, Louisville was relatively new at tracking younger people who were homeless, who didn’t engage services the same way adults would. There were lots of ways to estimate adult homeless populations – housing referrals, emergency shelters, camps, day-shelters, soup kitchens, etc. But most of the time, someone 18-24, or even younger, wouldn’t register in one of these systems; The longer someone stayed in the streets as a young adult, the more likely they were to experience chronic homelessness later in life. The job of Homeless Youth Coordinator was basically to try to locate these kids, help build a database, and try to convince anyone who would listen to access supportive resources.
Every day was different because every camp, viaduct, overpass, and of course - abandoned building were different. Sometimes, the referral I was looking for would shelter in one of these dilapidated houses, factories, train stations - you name it. But more often than not it was just myself walking through damp stairwells and dark basements. This wasn’t directly in the job description, but these liberties had paid off more than once, allowing me to connect people to resources that would have otherwise been overlooked.
It was still technically trespassing, but most of the time it was as simple as moving a board or peeling back a cut in the fence. Other times it required some acrobatics: belly crawls, squeezing through windows, and shuffling up rickety ladders. Really, it wasn’t in the job description, but let’s face it – that made it even better.
My favorite abandoned spots were the factories. These sprawling structures of crumbling concrete and rusty metal were eerie to walk through. There was no way to ever know for sure if I was alone in a 10-story, 100,000 square foot expanse. On more than one occasion, the sound of a shaking can followed by its predicable hiss would pierce through the creaking floors and dripping pipes to signal for me it was time to go.
The inside of these buildings were beaming with color. After a while, I began to study a few of the reoccurring signatures. To most, I think graffiti seems like an uncomplicated nuisance. To others, it may signal decay or blight undeserving of a second glimpse. If you take the time to sort through the cursive hieroglyphics, however, they can tell a story. It takes patience to piece it together, observing reoccurring themes, a writer’s favorite spots and colors. You can see the evolution of an artist studying their craft, bringing their unsteady hand into a controlled abstract message.
For most artists, I think the message is straightforward. Graffiti is a sort of art therapy, painting the city with their name in a world where they feel invisible. And reading these names wouldn’t be possible anywhere else. To see tags on TV, in movies, or even on social media likely meant the piece was already gone – scrubbed away forever. But in a decaying building, apathy far exceeded its graffiti-laced walls. Thousands of painted initials would remind me that these buildings weren’t forgotten or rejected at all. Countless claimed ownership of it, and these territory wars were invisible to all of us.
The most prominent artist I remember had a tag that draped a slanted, grumpy face with a top-hat. It was accompanied by the letters “BRRR”. I remember admiring the daring ledges and rickety ladders in proximity to each painting. I wouldn’t be surprised if the artist’s day job involved a trapeze. Even more than the daring ledges, the identity of BRRR was just as interesting to me. I wasn’t the only one who noticed the image. In a span of just a few years, the tag was everywhere, and forums and articles online speculated at the identity of the artist. As I would make my rounds through each floor of a decaying building somewhere in a forgotten corner of Louisville, the rounded face, apathetic eyes, and smug grin was often the only face I would see.
Unlike other tags who would embolden themselves on interstate overpasses, street signs, or prominent billboards, BRRR preferred the damp, dark stairwell. Big real estate investors would probably recognize the acronym standing for “Buy, Rehab, Rent, Refinance” – a strategy for snatching property in forgotten neighborhoods. If this was the artist’s message, they had a sense of humor. I can’t imagine the face of a big-shot investor being escorted through the halls of one of these buildings only to realize their playbook was labeled on the roof. In the world of graffiti, location is even more important than real estate, and “BRRR” was erecting a “not for sale” sign only an investor could recognize.
An appreciation for graffiti persisted years later when I came across a dumpster at a flea market in a small town outside Louisville. Leaned up against the dumpster was a 5’x6’ fence panel graced with an artist’s name I had never heard of before. The panel read “Denz” in bright, choppy script. Below it, a lime green background behind an apathetic Boondocks Saints Character doing the finger guns. A rejected piece not even bothered to be hoisted into the trash can but laid beside it was reminiscent of my favorite type of art, the rarely seen ones.
More than that though, some friends of mine were moving into a new house later that day. Of course, an insanely large and heavy piece of art, specifically meant for the outdoors, was the housewarming present they were after. Since I didn’t have any straps, the piece had to squeeze into the Rav4. It was so tight I had to slouch while I drove almost an hour home while the portrait and my daughter exchanged glances. If I could have seen past my headrest, i’d like to think she was doing finger guns right back at him all the way back to Louisville.
The housewarming gift was left anonymously, but it didn’t take long for them to peg me as the suspect. The image remained in their front yard for almost two years before they grew tired of fielding questions from visitors, the mail man, and occasional passers by.
Coming home from work one day, I stopped dead in my tracks as I looked up to see my neighbors showcasing it in their own yard. Evidently, they had seen a “free” sign affixed to it a few streets over. Most of my sneaky pranks on my friends end up coming back around to haunt me, but this one was particularly obvious. My friends had inadvertently played the long game, and chance would have it they got me back. The image wouldn’t remain there long though.
After only a few days, my neighbor Alicia came knocking on my door. She told me some “art collectors” were in her yard, and they were interested in the piece. I am assuming they used the term “art collectors” in the same way I used the word “respected” to describe my first job out of college. These art collectors didn’t look much older than me and wore ripped jeans and bandanas. Regardless, they recognized the artist, Denz. Apparently, he was active in Chicago mainly, but he had pieces in New York and Miami. He even had a deal with Converse who printed one of his Chicago tributes on their high tops.
They educated us on dozens of artists all with different mediums and styles draping train cars, overpasses, and anything you could think of. With them they carried a small black book filled with pages of tags. Each one displaying an artist’s autograph in bright bold letters. “Tdup”, “Exer”, “2Buck”.
I asked them if they had any BRRR tags, and sure enough they showed me the page. They offered my neighbors $150, and they took it on the spot. While they settled up though, I noticed something in the pages. One of the autographs in the black book was addressed “To BRRR”.
I stood there confused for a few seconds trying to process what I was seeing. Without interrupting their negotiation, I discretely tapped the main collector on the shoulder and pointed.
He responded with a wink.
Before they hauled the painting away, I ran and grabbed something from my living room. It was old wallpaper from one of the abandoned factories I frequented. At the time, I had grabbed it to save it. The building was being plagued with arson, and I had managed to preserve just a few feet of the vintage 1950’s roll. The framed wallpaper had been hanging in my living room untouched for six years.
I passed it to him, and with a single fluid gesture, a familiar face emerged - three lopsided circles, a smug grin, and a top hat.
