The vote of February is far behind but I had difficulty putting together this text... it has not become a poem or a story more of a praise to a graffiti tree.
I invite you to participate in my next poll, the text for April! (The vote for March is already clear)
Blog Entry: picturebandit.wordpress.com/sh…
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A tree has age and grace, stripped from him: in processing, grinding and shaping. This one fell in a Forrest with many friends. Has been captured and detained. With a kind irony it ended up as a log, same shape, just stumped and without the changing colors of its leaves. I imagined it to be, at first, bleak and boring and the artificial glint of lacquer a mockery to bark. Yet over time it found a certain stand, a reason to upheld, a roof and structure. It became a unannounced memorial to a real tree. Still at the same height but without his natural adornments. When I did perceive it, it had already been covered in graffiti. An orange, that before might have signalized the forthcoming autumn, is now an adornment; a color of fall in winter. The green and black scribbles are like shadows of a forest of memories. Life unfolds and the messages of history remain or so I hope.
Stripped of skin and pride it became a monolith for the masses unknown and unannounced to the love birds and the visitors which have left their legible and less so messages to be worn by him without regard to his history. Shining through these edgings and markings is a soft washed natural brown texture. A sign of an old wound, now stricken and yet somehow patched up with words and symbols, nonsense and past tenses. He carries cuts of love in his surface, even in his near tree existence he had to stand in for a real one. Messages of anger in fluid writing, curses and worse-wishes seem to be carried well by him reflecting his own neglected existence. Which of these writers remembers the words and the act of inscribing them? Do they still exist or have they all found their end? What about the stories behind these words? Questions like the who and why, as always with these tags, are in my mind. Back to the log, the pillar that stands and carries day and night. Yet we forget the words inscribed and are unaware of the changing of a simple surface that was once a tree.
The story of the log, the canvas for the authors of this epic, means nothing to them. They did not even bother for eloquence, grammar or spelling. Just enjoying the simple beauty of writing in haste and out of your heart on to an unknown surface. While experiencing a rush of doing something slightly forbidden. Simple images are our civilized cave paintings partly nonsense. Words upon words are becoming texture, structure and adds layers of importance upon a destructive deed. Do we still remember the tree? Is it not just the structure, the log, the hut we will remember? Touching him leaves me dissapointed and sad, too soft for bark is his skin just like a washed up bone.
I took an image to remember him and dedicate these words to uphold the pillar not as structure but entity. My thanks to these trees, those cutting them down, those that build with them and the people for their left behind words to change something bleakly dead to its own piece of art. Rootless, leafless, lifeless he has lost much on his way. Replaced natural parts with civilization forced on to him. An image does not do him justice, words can only prevail so much and actions do not change the fact that many others of his fallen brethren spend counting their days, others lie buried or hidden in plain sight and get little to no attention. This graffitied stump has to stand for all of the others too, just as our celebs they get the attention as well as the tattoos while others only stand and do their part.
I know that I would have walked past it unseeing if it were not for the company I kept in an unknown city. I would have not found this place if I was not on a path of discovery. There in between my own memories and thoughts about this image I see more well wishes, more hearts and more hope but only discovered over time. At first there were only the curses and the insults. My own heart and mark would have been left if I could commit and could admit. Love comes easy to me for people, moments and items. The courage to admit, to carve the words and symbols less so. Love is coal, it can easily be erased and washed away but still can create artworks that endure. A tag, a carved heart or a scribble on a tree would or could stand for longer than my existence. I can not commit.
For me it will remain the memory of a short-lived encounter, a meet up with a perfect stranger a friend I gained and lost within hours. Akin to the layers upon the tree the stories it holds it does so for me in memory. My hope is that it will not be washed away, will not be covered by paint or carved away for beauties sake. I hope people can acknowledge the worth it has, no longer growing naturally but as a continuous wall for the people to write on. May it stand, changing as it did up until this point until the structure falls. Thinking about it, looking at it I still feel regret for the tree, the irony that it should uphold a vista and am still thankful that it was built and also cut down.
Unknown authors, writers, taggers, artist and lovebirds there is no rule to follow, there is no sense in the single line. The beauty is additive, the simplicity is compelling and if my path will lead me there again I shall visit and hope to find you with a new skin, changed from the old with more words for this epic. Will ad my own and commit and write what I could not admit. Three simple words in a past tense.
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