This was my first real graffiti piece, and looking at it now, I can see how rough it is. Uneven pressure, a shaky outline, fills that don't quite sit where they should. But back then, standing in front of that wall, I was sure it was the best thing I had ever painted.
I painted it on the wooden panels of a park, on raw timber, outdoors, in one of those spots where you learn graffiti fast because there's no undo button. The colours were khaki green, pink and banana yellow — a combination I'd probably never plan on paper, but somehow it worked. I don't fully remember why I reached for those cans. At the start, graffiti is almost entirely instinct, and instinct doesn't keep notes.
I didn't do it alone, either. A writer called OGAS — he later went by VISBY, repping the BSG crew — stood next to me and helped me pull the outline straight, which is the hardest thing to get clean when your hand still shakes. It's been so many years since we last crossed paths, a whole lifetime ago really, and honestly I still think about him sometimes and wonder how he's doing, whether he's still painting somewhere, still holding that same steady line. Wherever he is, a piece of that first wall belongs to him too.
And yes — those were Montana Black and Montana Gold cans, the same ones you can see in the photo. Good paint, the kind every graffiti writer respects. The irony is I had no money and no work back then, so how those cans ended up in my hands is a story of its own. Every writer knows that particular math: broke, but somehow never short on paint.
It was summer. The moment I finished, the sky cracked open — a full-on thunderstorm, rain coming down in sheets. My brother and I ran for the bus and got completely soaked, laughing the whole way, the fresh piece left behind on the wall to take its first rain alone. I still can't think of that graffiti wall without hearing the thunder.
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