The electrocuted letters are frozen, shocked into eternal paralysis. The words have been sliced open, exposed. They are gigantic, throbbing veins: angry red blood cells burst forth from the confines of the black outlines. They attack with all the patience of a squirming child waiting in line for the restroom. The grey invaders may be minute in stature, but they are formidable as an opponent. Still, the crimson creatures are ravenous in their greed; only the flash of paralyzing lightning prevents the demise of the outnumbered invaders. Time lies stagnant. Now, the invaders will never succeed while the defenders will never return to peace. Victory takes no sides in this war.
Black shadows lurk silently just beneath the open gash. They wait patiently for the moment when the blood cells have finally defeated the intruders- the day the crimson turns grey from sheer exhaustion. Then, it will be their turn. They will bleed out from the depths, droplets of ink escaping into a pool of crystal water, enveloping and contaminating everything in sight. The weakened defenders stand no chance. Predator will become prey when the darkness of night sweeps.
Alas, the patience of the shadows is of no avail. They, too, are immobilized by the vigorous lightning. The flash reveals the true grey of the shadows, which shrink back from the touch of the light. The letters cry out in pain as the sharp lightning bolt cuts into them, searing their flesh and snatching their souls. The lightning smiles wickedly in triumph: it has conquered all! But no, one final competitor plays his hand. It is Time, the ultimate victor. Silently, he nods, and the world freezes. The triumphant lightning is stuck at climax, the moment of violent struggle and just barely unattainable victory. Time has won again.
I stare at this glorious masterpiece: a modern rendering of those crucial moments from mythology once captured so valiantly by the Baroque masters of still movement. It is the modern Bernini: the desperation of Apollo and the despair of Daphne at her moment of transformation are replaced by an explosion of blood cells and grey disease-carriers streaming through the pulsing body of a word, only it is fourfold. Four struggles represented in one composition, three single letters. NTS.
My Holy Grail has two parts: image and message. Now the question begs an answer: how do I find them? How can I capture Kelsea in one set of letters? What image could feel right to me? I see word after word, image after image splayed across the rusty buildings. They say “defaced”, I say “beautified”. This is Italy, with its rich history of art and innovation, often combined. We watch frescoes and sculptures through the ages, marveling at the new techniques, new media, and new styles. Perhaps graffiti is the masterpiece of today. Maybe our descendants will preserve the brilliant art of nighttime and counterculture, touring the ancient graffiti sites and mourning the masterpieces that were eventually painted over or torn down. It is such an integral part of Italy now; I call it graffit’italia. I have found graffiti heaven; now all I have to do is find graffitikelsea.
Stretching across the span of almost three bridges, I discover rows and rows of graffiti. Names and words: some clear, some contorted beyond recognition. Each one was a meticulous effort. Each artist of each piece had a set of letters or images in mind that were worth documenting. I wonder about the names. Were they a representation of the self? Maybe a loved or admired one? What about the words or acronyms? They could be initials or organizations, or perhaps that which I search for: the word that defines the artist, or the artist’s message. I wonder if anyone chooses letters simply for their aesthetic value, with no meaning attached. My personal graffiti will not be that way: it will be representative. It will mean Kelsea, but it will not say “Kelsea”. That I have decided: my arbitrary given name will not be the name I give myself when I finally discover and illustrate my graffiti. It will be a word: a concept, perhaps, or a trait, or maybe even a verb. But it will not be my name.
I wonder about my image. How would I visually represent the letters I choose? Will it be like NTS: lively, tense, and brilliant, like the eruption of blood cells unleashing their rage? Will my letters be twisted like the green octopus legs on the side of the abandoned shack we passed by? I think it’ll have to be at the very edge of madness: it must be readable, but not immediately so. I’ll make the viewer work for my message; it will only be for those who care enough to make the effort, but those who do will be rewarded. My image will be in motion; stagnancy is not my forte, nor my desire.
I love the lightning, captured in its very moment of triumph. I love the stars, transfixed at the height of their brilliance. I love the glimmer of the newest graffiti, the brightest colors and the deepest shading. My graffiti will stand out- it will be somewhat grandiose, but it won’t be a mad explosion of circus colors. It will have a sort of chaotic organization- it might even be a combined amalgam of styles and experimentations. It will have life, passion, energy, ferocity, and possibly even teeth. It will be bathed in reds, blues, and blacks. And so this is my folle vole: not to physically find my message in this graffiti paradise, this graffit’italia, but to garner inspiration from bits and pieces of other people’s personal graffiti and put them together to form my own: my graffitikelsea.
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