In some spaces graffiti reeks of inappropriateness, which may in fact be the inspiration for it, a message almost profane in contrast. In other spaces, it’s welcomed, and encouraged. In these spaces the art can be seen as trite, juvenile, a malady of dick jokes and for a good time call Josephine’s.
But in the men’s room at Honest John’s in Detroit, it’s overdone, just right.
This is a community effort, left alone by management, and frankly one of the better examples of it takes a village I’ve come across.
It’s personal, without being pretentious, or garish. The colors blend, and coexist. From erotic renditions to philosophical meanderings, every surface attacks the pupils on contact, but no particular piece dominates.
It’s four dimensional, recycled, recumbent self expression in loops and layers. It’s a damn fine place to take a piss.
I enjoyed the conversations left behind, wondering who began and ended these salvos. I pondered age old questions, such as “since when did the finger fuck become the new first kiss?”
I didn’t contribute. I wasn’t prepared. But now I’m thinking, and putting a marker or two in my jacket for next time.