Only Gray

Arriving in New York City a few hours after the Puerto Rican Day Parade, the whole place felt abuzz with energy. Having visited a few times as a kid, this was the first time that I was entering the city as an adult, and it just seemed different this time. Meeting my sister and I at the airport, my older brother then proceeded to lead the way through a maze for twists , turns, and subway tunnels, until we were finally outside standing on an elevated train platform watching as a procession of metal tubes filled with the familiar orange of the Mets uniform each passed us, too full to take on any new passengers. After waiting for twenty minutes of so, we crammed our way onto a partially full train, and hung on tightly as it rattled and jittered its way across those tracks. 

Watching in amazement as the buildings got taller and taller, I  hadn't said a word that whole train trip and then we turned a corner. Immediately visible against a sea of 50 shades of gray, the vibrant colors and intricate designs exploding against my retinas, my face was soon pressed to the finger print smudged glass as we snaked our way passed the largest monument to art and freedom of expression I had ever seen. Pointing with a smile , my brother leaned in and proclaimed in a voice loud enough to be heard over the metallic rumbles of the train, “ Thats 5 pointz.” Instantly it made sense why we had taken that particular route, and I was extremely thankful, and even further convinced that my older brother was the coolest person on the planet. 

Fascinated with street art since I was a kid, the first we came to New York, I was chastised by my parents for opening the sliding van door to snap a picture of a memorial piece at a stop light in a less than safe neighborhood. I still have that picture to this day. Having tried my hand at it a bit in high school, I soon quit as it quickly led to some unfortunate associations, and interactions, and also I never felt like I was good enough, comparatively (something that kept me from pursuing art for the majority of my life).  For so long most art felt so restricted to me, i didn't understand, i couldn't see, or feel, except for street art. Disgusted by the endless monotony of gray walls, devoid of any life, or color, or hope, even a small tag etched in a wall, felt to me like a sign of life, a cry for help, a message that, we will not be forgotten, no matter how many walls you put up. 

While many people still see graffiti as vandalism, in most situations, and within reason, even bad graffiti made me smile a bit. Not requiring admittance to be viewed, or wealthy patrons to support, in many ways graffiti is still one of the purest art forms, but not everyone feels this way, and thus there is an inherent conflict that persists. One for the latest casualties of this conflict is that glorious building that so captured my attention so many years ago, 5 Pointz. Having been scheduled to be demolished by the end of the year, to be turned into more luxury condos, the owners of the abandoned art mecca , decided to, for not apparent reason , other than spite, and bad taste, paint over the entire building, adding yet another gray behemoth to the New York City skyline.  Losing ourselves to the streaming masses, we mourn places like 5 pointz and the thousands of train cars that have their beautiful exteriors ripped away in exchange for a new life in grey mediocrity. 

-Joshua Genius