I caught a train into the city with my wallet and keys in my back pocket. The rattle of the train was melancholic. Life is episodic. I was perched on the edge of a cliffhanger, but the ending was predictable for my grandmother.
I walked to the UUS. It'd been a long time since I'd been there. I was stunned to find that the walls had been whitewashed. A large yellow sign said 'Commercial property development, enquire now, melbourneofficescbd.com.au'. Beside it was a smaller sign from the City of Melbourne saying: 'Victorian Graffiti Prevention Act, up to 2 years prison and a maximum fine of $37,310.' They'd whitewashed our art to make way for a commercial property development.
Asten's O-C-C-U-P-I-E-D work was gone, my cageman was gone, there wasn't even any trace of Alicia's K-TASTROPHE paste-ups. A small period in my history had been erased with white paint by some property developers and bureaucrats and I felt an intense longing to have that time back again.
My heart was thumping as I scaled the wire fence, my trainers slipping through the metal wire with ease. I swung my leg over the barbed wire without hesitation and pulled myself up onto the rooftop. I was so pleased to see Kruler's work Ozone was still here, they hadn't found and destroyed it yet. The sun was setting and the silver spray cans looked glazed. I had an urge to protect the work. If I could've built a museum display case around it, I would've. I ran my fingers over the cans and it was like my batteries were being recharged; I wanted to create works on the streets again. There was a vital element of myself that'd been lost. My parents tried to whitewash it, Alicia whitewashed it, the Council whitewashed it, but it still remained.
I climbed down the wire fence with determination. I stared at the white wall once more and thought to myself 'Blink, you don't see me.' That's it. That's what I'll create – those things we don't see that are right in front of us, the invisible people, the people who are ignored – the street kids, the homeless, the garbage pickers, the elderly.
A new voice started to resonate from deep within me, quiet and unsure at first, but building in strength, vibrating on my vocal cords and tingling on my lips, until I was walking back to Flinders Street Station full of excitement, imagining the new works I wanted to create on the streets.
YOU ARE READING
Repeat After Me
Teen FictionAn impossible love between two young street artists. *** Ivy is a 16 year old street artist who finally has the streets to herself when Melbourne goes into the first COVID lockdown. She meets another street artist, Asten, and can't help falling for...
