VANDALIST CHAPTER ONE

VANDALISTS

Chapter One

DEATH OF DARCY

tenciled silhouettes of dead bodies, piled on top of each other, with bright red enamel and burgundy spray paint, resembling blood splatter. All carefully placed on a concrete wall next to a bodega. (‘Death Upon Death Upon Death, what happens next? you will be dead.’ 2019, oil, enamel, ink, spray paint on concrete, 170 x 245cm.) The latest artwork description for her final body of work.

This magnum opus was done by the wonderous artist and poet, Love Darcy. She remained anonymous for decades leaving street art all over major cities. Exposing various truths of those in higher power. According to the newspaper last week, to no surprise, a police officer opened fire on an unarmed civilian, having their spray paint apparatus mistaken for a firearm. Online articles that were published today, claimed there was hard hitting evidence suggesting that this individual was Love Darcy. Add blood to the list of materials used. As her final work was exposing the inconsistencies of the police force, and the number of innocent deaths attributed by them?... or was it something more? A call for help, as she knew she would soon face her own demise. I believe her death was no accident. Skeptics, objectivists, and conspiracy theorists believe, this is the beginning of a major government change. The entire social network is flooded with hashtags to spread awareness of this moment. The strangest part, anything involving the subject of her death was quickly removed.

…Later in the afternoon.

Overlooking the harbor as the sun was setting, I sat there on my smartphone searching for any news on this disheartening passing, sipping on the cheapest wine of my own choosing. As Richard, sat across from me with his complementary water, looking over at the port, watching rich families placed on their expensive boats. Both of us dressed fancier than usual for nothing eventful, but to disguise ourselves as part of the aristocracy. With our antique warm dapper coats, we got from a secondhand store. I in creams and beiges to match my lighter skin tone, with Richard in maroons and browns. Richard’s paint-stained fingertips from the night before, doesn’t help with impersonations.

“I think I want a boat” he says.

“What is the difference between us and them? we see the same view.”

“Owning a boat means you have that much money, you are comfortable enough to splurge on a boat.” He replied.

He had a good point, but I won’t let him have it.

“Money means nothing if you’re dead like Darcy.” I respond, “Just be happy you are alive.”

Richard sighs, whispering under his own breath “This is why you have no friends.”

Honestly, I can’t argue with that. I have a serious social problem, always riling up an argument once I get to know a person. I’m surprised he continues to hang out with a younger guy like myself. I always thought it was best that people remain strangers. So, I could keep my negative thoughts to myself. But Richard does all the talking anyway.

Returning to the task at hand, I was stunned seeing my mobile device, ‘Error 404’, on every page associated with ‘Art’ or ‘Darcy’ being quickly removed by the second. At first, I thought it was my service provider acting up earlier throughout the day. I told Richard to try searching up anything involving her death. Again nothing! First the social networks, now the actual search engines too. Richard who was not paying full attention earlier, sat up concerned with the same thing I was, quickly forgetting about the fancy boats. We were only surrounded by divorcees and pensioners enjoying their delicate wines and charcutier boards. There wasn’t much validation in asking them about this online occurrence, in fact they might favor the death of a street vandal.

“We need to stop pretending we belong in places like this” I said, as Richard got up and poured his free water all over the finely laid out tabletop slowly and surely. Getting reactions from the public. The sad reality is that Richard sometimes forgets that his dark complexion limits him from getting away with this kind of abstract behaviour. Leading to security escorting us out of the venue.

“You are all bugging!” Richard playing innocent from making a soaking disarray in there. The guard not phased, by doing his job.

It’s not a crime to be in a place because the social ladder claims you can’t. Just be dressed for the occasion and be on your best behaviour. Richard albeit, always dips his toes in what he could get away with. Including randomly pouring water, a performance art experiment, to test the patience of a place. Sometimes it’s a basic spill, other times it is causing a scene. “If an eccentric artist were to pour water on that table, it would be considered an autograph”. His incredibly preposterous philosophy is that “if he could get away with doing absurd acts in public, then the world is ready to accept art again”. He claims that art is dying in this information age, that people are forgetting to live a little. The coward only does this if he knows we are leaving, so getting kicked out would be his intention.

Boulevard

After Leaving that pretentious bar that wasn’t worth anymore mention, we ventured forth into the cold city as young men do, with the sun slowly slicing through the manmade structures of New York. We tend to forget these buildings with 99+ levels were crafted by us. These are just three-dimensional containers, stagnant like the lives inside the confined cubicles, making money for bosses they don’t like, earning lesser, to consume more. Capitalism is the crowd control; it controls money, class status and decision making. We don’t have a lot of money, but we are free! I don’t blame Richard for wanting a boat, he was made to believe that it’s not achievable for a person like him. We always want what we cannot have.

Hell! it would be nice, but I don’t waste my time daydreaming, rather trying to find the nearest Art Gallery in New York.

As of this past year, Art Galleries have slowly been discontinuing exhibitions, resulting in demolishment. This was done without the public being informed, with many missing out on the galleries last days. Richard and I strolled throughout the city; bumping into crowds of strangers, reading newspapers, asking those having desserts at cafes, if there are any art galleries still around and whether there was any mention of Love Darcy. Many shake their 4

heads, in exchange for soulless confused facial expressions. There had to be something around here, someone had to be concerned with this strange phenomenon. We both look completely deranged asking around for an art gallery and, of a name that many older folks wouldn’t know of.

41st and 3rd

Until we were six blocks further down from the bar on 41st and 3rd. A young lady with two messy hair buns, giant prescription glasses, a black monochromatic outfit including a long protruding coat, dressing older than she was. Came up to us.

“Who are you?” We all said at the same time.

speaking over one another, leading to all three of us interjecting into a muddled conversation,

“OK let’s slow down and lower your voice, I’ll start first,” said the lady.

“I’m Dawn, funny enough the sun is setting. Besides the point, I overheard you two asking about Art Galleries and about Darcy quite vigorously, these poor people”.

“I’m Lucius” I mumbled “and yes!”

“Great I’m Richard, call me Rich and not Dick, what type of whack shit is going on around here?” Richard exclaimed.

“Well Alright Rich! Many of us don’t know, I’ve been putting up flyers about a march that would be happening in central park in a few days. Glad I could reach you guys; I’m currently done with this area.” Dawn giggled.

Taking out her black leather duffle bag, inside the bag she flips through a large pile of paper flyers; all in various colours and art styles, inspired my 60s psychedelic art with large bold text showing the time, date and place, a complete contrast to her attire. I couldn’t help but comment on the amazing work that she put into advertising this social march, exchanging her gratitude for my comments, saying most were done by her & her friends. Her brave fearless act of coming up to us strangers and making us seem less insane, was enough for me to be interested in being her friend. She later clarified that there are others questioning the death of Darcy but have been silenced. So, those who know of Darcy are staying together in proximity of SoHo keeping quiet and inside.

“If you have nothing better to do, follow me to my place, I have some art friends I’d like you to meet.” Dawn insisted.

Richard went closer towards me, “Do you think it’s safe to follow her?” he whispers. I reiterated “She first came up to us, two strange boys, giving us flyers that clearly advertise Darcy, and you’re questioning if we could trust her” Richard sighs, “She just said people are being silenced, isn’t that code for being killed?” I tilted away breathing “no.” and walked off to follow Dawn. Richard reluctantly followed anyway.

Apartment

We pitched a cab to her place in SoHo.

Seeing her overpriced NYC apartment looking over the consumerist fashion crowds. The elegant cast-iron-facades and cobblestone streets. Dawn, in other words, was wealthy. I’m not a big fan of SoHo but I’ll have to suck it up, considering this is where all the art golems dwell, with their vegan alternatives and their art projects being funded by their rich parents. Honestly, Dawn comes across as one of those hipsters. Besides the point, her apartment lobby was everything I expected. The stairs were old, and rustic, needing retiling. Having hints of mahogany brown wood, elegant green plants and faded red worn out carpet. We took the industrial elevator to the 7th floor. An experience Rich wasn’t happy about, “We’re taking the stairs next time” he cried as the cable wires were scratching harsh noises. Finally, making it to her distant loft in the long hallway. The place smelt of peppermint tea, having indoor plants and wabi sabi interior design, along with dark green walls and high ceilings. We were quickly faced by two other people, a young man, and a young woman, sitting on a brown leather couch. Dressed quite similar to us, almost as though we all decided to wear proper coats. “A Friday night and instead of celebrating and drinking, we stop to remember Darcy” the young man sneered. “Where did you find these two posers Dawn?” the woman tittered. “Excuse me! I spray paint the streets unlike you-you stale pretentious white canvas.” Richard yelled. I steadily interject holding him back “I’m Lucius and this is Richard, don’t mind him, he doesn’t know you yet.” Dawn also chimes in with “We are all here for Darcy” chuckling then simpering. “Sorry! the stunning lady with the genderless haircut is Niamh and the four eyed cliche is Kurtis.” An introduction much needed earlier than later.

After the subtle squabble between Rich and Niamh, we all concluded that the unfortunate news on Darcy was important to us. We all circle around Dawn’s living room table, dimly lit candles, red wine amongst ourselves. Only thing missing was a pentagram, like a summoning for the demon of Darcy. Nonetheless, we were trying to have a say on the matter, why Darcy was so important to us. Beginning with Richard in a clockwise direction.

“So, why is Darcy so important to you Dick?” Niamh teased.

“I’ll let that slide, I deserved that.” Richard straightened up his posture.

“As a street artist myself, I relate to her works. We don’t know what she looks like, we just know she makes works that we could all relate to, some more than others, just a Real OG artist” Richard stated.

Niamh assured, “Darcy was a great role model for the LGBT community. The name alone is genderless, as for a long time many thought Darcy was referring to Mr Darcy. She flipped everyone off when she started her “Love Darcy” series of gender-neutral colours and splatter work. One with the letters ‘XX’ as elderly white media kept calling her a man. I enjoyed that she had people guessing for so long, finally, coming out. It didn’t matter what she was, she just wanted a pronoun.”

Kurtis went on about how her art was so intricate, that the precision and time needed to complete her works are almost impossible, saying the strokes are so consistent that if done by multiple people, it would be otherwise difficult. Claiming she was rather an inspiring enigma.

Dawn also perked up and spoke, “Darcy is a symbol for feminism, I mean true feminism, her works were messages to the world, so empowering that good people would pay attention, even ignorant boys that are in this room right now. Her love letters told people they weren’t alone in their cities of nightmares.”

She went on more about how much Darcy meant to her. There was something so mesmerizing in how she spoke about Darcy. Almost as though she was embodying her hopeful spirit. I’d like to think that she saw something in me and Richard. I was so compelled by Dawn’s articulation, I sat there not knowing how to follow up her answer. When it was my turn to speak, I sat there with a completely blank excuse of a face.

“Are you going to say anything?” Dawn Faltered.

“Oh yes Darcy, uhm. I’m glad she brought many together, including those gathered here today.” I stuttered.

They all looked around the circle, then back at me, not impressed by my answer. “Really that’s it?” Niamh asked.

“OK well that concludes our mourning session.” Dawn mocked. In attempts to save me from this awkward predicament.

I felt a sense of imposters syndrome, as though I didn’t belong, all these people in this room have something worth contributing, they are all artists in different ways. Richard, the occasional graffiti artist, Dawn a graphic flyer extraordinaire, Niamh, I’ve noticed has signed paintings around Dawn’s apartment and Kurtis was the brains behind art (the art technician).

“Lucius, knowing who Darcy is-is enough for you to be here,” Dawn assured.

I usually don’t smile, but it felt like the moment to do so-so I did. I have difficulties making friends and when invited to a small crowd of strangers, I tend to stutter, as my true thoughts are kept to myself.

1. the first appearance of light in the sky before sunrise.

Oddly enough these random events, lead me to a possible charismatic, cult leader’s apartment. This was the most fun I’ve had in a while, something different from just hanging out with the hot-headed Richard.

As night-time was creeping away, leaving left with empty wine bottles and empty thoughts, the sun was rising. Dawn insisted that everyone must stay for breakfast in the morning. While an inebriated Niamh, was begging Richard to try her ‘breakfast bagel’, as she pulled his arm, leading him into a bedroom.