"The fight kicks off in the usual way. outside a bar on a saturday night, a minor insult is offered and met and a scuffle ensues. two men battle it out in the name of honour, and its not long before the fight steps up in pace and starts to weave its way steadily down the street. At one point, one of the men begins to struggle; he is getting tired and floundering. Looking like he is getting ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat, his friends jump in to support the side - he’s not going down that easily! The opposing side swells to match them and the conflict escalates. Assault meets assault and blow layers on blow, over and over and over… until tensions reach their peak and things finally start to wind down. The instigator, satisfied with the damage he and his boys have done and a little bored with the whole event, decides to call a truce. The undisputed victor, he pulls out leaving his opponent with the shame of defeat and a tarnished reputation.
You might have been in the neighbourhood when all this was going on. you may even have walked down the same street. But you’d be forgiven for missing it. While driven by the same fuel as any other fight - challenge and male bravado - this one draws no crowd and leaves no wounded. Its weapons are sprayed words and its war wounds amount to nothing more than a few dented egos. This fight is between two graffiti writers and it takes place on the wall.
It amazes me that we walk past all this day after day without any idea that it’s happening. We don’t take a second look. Of course there are some people who are obsessed with graffiti, but these are usually the ones who write it or dedicate their lives to fighting it - this ‘rash on the skin of our city.’ Most of us are just plain indifferent. It’s background scenery, an urban white noise which is recognized but rarely registered. Not surprising really. Graffiti is not one to share its stories."