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URBAN STREET ART

DMITRI INDREU PHOTOGRAPHY

ARTIST : BREEZE THIRTEEN

I think I was about ten or eleven when I was born. Awakened to the madness inside me. There was a small field near where I lived. And I would pass it everyday. One day there stood a “TO LET” sign. My brain began to whirl. So one night I slipped out armed with bad intentions and a marker pen, and I changed the sign to “TOILET”. I thought I was Van Gough! And something inside me came to life that has never quietened.

Aged thirteen, fourteen, found us running up and down train lines. Armed with car paints. We learnt to make frankensteins. Taking nozzles off anything we could find. Raiding the backs of shops for any cardboard we could find to practice on. The train lines were a community all on their own. We lived in a police state. It almost seemed a crime to be young. And smile. There was a curfew. So everyone travelled from one part of town to the next along the tracks. On the streets you’d be stopped.

Many, many a night, aged fifteen, sixteen, you’d find me running down one of the lines. Dressed as Tom Baker. Tripping on acid. Pockets full of bad intentions. Finalising with “first run”. To show girls what we’d done. All too often it would be the only time you’d see it. ‘First run’ became sacred.

I got older and moved to a big city. Started hitting alleyways. Any derelict nook or cranny in my way. Became more like an architect. Fitting pieces specifically to the location. But then along came stencils. And overnight the walls were plastered with really badly cut out designs. Designs that were mostly boring as fuck. It’s like they hadn’t even bothered practicing at home on cardboard first. And all the rules of graf seemed to die. So I retreated from walls. Only coming out occasionally to bomb abandoned buildings. Holding candlelit exhibitions at night until they inevitably got shut down. The world had changed and I didn’t recognise it any more.

It’s been many, many moons since I hit walls. I now paint at home. But with the same philosophy in mind. That I have as long as it takes for you to pass by on a train to get your attention. And hopefully leave you wondering about it afterwards.

Now I want to bomb every fridge door. Living room wall. Back of the bathroom door. That spark still burns inside of me, I just can’t run as fast as I used to be able to. Besides there is no point hitting outside walls any more. All too often I am the only one on the bus looking out the window.

I still live in the shadows. I thought growing up in the eighties was bad enough. Now we live in George Orwell’s nineteen eighty four. Cameras galore! And if you can afford expensive televisions and phones. They can record your every word. Good job I’m skint. And the spark that glows deep inside of me is adamant that if you want to monitor me, I’m going to make you earn your wage!

I live peacefully with my elderly cat. Moggy. And I paint. I am influenced by all the absurdity I see around me. Sometimes art can be a hammer. Sometimes a mirror. And sometimes art can just be a thing of beauty that warms you inside. Cos it’s boring being serious most of the time.

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