by kriS Vagner | krisv@newsreview.com
in e a graFFiti Piec rtiSt bankSy reno o t g a in h m o iS c it r ’S b by the —and it S r o o d in t a e r g iS touring the
ost art is so private,” said art collector Brian Greif—rhymes with “knife”—in a phone interview. He lives in San Francisco and trades in pop and surrealist work, among other genres. He looks the part—as clean-cut and buttoned-up as a big-city art dealer from Central Casting—but don’t stereotype him just yet. He has a beef with some varieties of art-world exclusivity and a soft spot for artists who work in the most public of venues—the streets. “If you look at the history of art, artists would go into their studios, do a painting, send them to galleries,” he said. “Most great
artists—their artwork was sort of untouchable, in this private or intimidating world.” With graffiti art, though, he said, “People can make their own judgments just walking down the street.” Greif used to be a TV station manager in San Francisco. Through that position, he got to know some of the world’s prominent graffiti artists. One of them is Ben Eine, whose bespectacled face and thoughtful, gritty English voice set the tone in the opening scenes of a 2017 film, Saving Banksy, for which Greif shares the executive producer credit with Columbus, Ohiobased curator Éva Boros. In the film, Eine is seen in a hoodie and a nitrile gloves, quickly stenciling a grid of smiley faces onto an outdoor wall. Sirens wail in the distance, underscoring the illegality of his actions. Then, Eine addresses the camera with a semi-anxious tone. “We paint stuff on the street,” he explains. “That’s where it belongs. It’s for the people. It’s for fun. It’s for adventure. It’s not to turn up in auction.” Immediately, a caption appears: “Their art is now being removed from walls and sold at “Haight Street Rat” was originally painted on the exterior of The Red Victorian hotel in San Francisco and is now on a tour of non-commercial galleries and libraries.
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high-end auctions.” Thus begins a story of Greif attempting to rescue a piece by the secretive British street artist Banksy from being circulated on the market.
San FranciSco dayS In 2010, Banksy went to San Francisco to stencil and spray six pieces in his trademark style—ever clever, graphically restrained, politically brazen critiques of capitalism and authority, in which rats sometimes play the roles of humans. He left pieces in Alcatraz, Fisherman’s Wharf, SOMA, North Beach, Mission and Haight-Ashbury, painting fast and planning smartly to not get caught. To make one piece, Banksy’s team backed a moving truck up to a wall and staged what looked like a delivery, placing a mattress on each side of the truck for privacy. Many San Franciscans found these new, unofficial works endearing. Not to mention, they came with the credibility of having been made by the world’s most famous graffiti artist. Banksy pieces worldwide have been removed from city walls and sold by dealers in the $500,000 range. His street pieces are presumably not intended to be traded—though Banksy does not show his face or speak publicly, so we couldn’t ask him. He never even spoke with Greif during the making of the film defending his work. He does make paintings on canvas intended for sale in galleries, and those have sold for up to $1.7 million. Despite his acclaim, the longevity of Banksy’s San Francisco works was in no way guaranteed. In a May 2010 article, KQED arts
reporter Sandra Silvoy wrote, “The City’s graffiti removal ordinance requires property owners to remove graffiti within 30 days or pay $500 for the City to remove it for them.” Silvoy wondered, “[W]ould the SF graffiti task force dare to buff Banksy?” To officials, the matter remained black and white. City Supervisor London Breed told Greif’s film crew, “We view artists who paint on property without permission as vandals. They’re breaking the law.”
Painting For numberS One of the San Francisco Banksy pieces, which has become known as “Haight Street Rat,” was painted on the side of The Red Victorian, the historic hotel. It depicts a rat with a grave expression, wearing a mixedmetaphor hat—a backward baseball cap that bears a strong resemblance to Che Guevara’s revolutionary-red-star beret. The rat holds a wide-tipped marker with both hands and looks into the distance, having just scrawled in red caps, “THIS IS WHERE I DRAW THE LINE.” The building owner intended to paint over the piece. Greif offered to purchase it from her, remove it from the building and repair the wall. He wanted the piece to be kept in the public eye. Negotiations dragged on. Costs escalated. Greif says in the film, about a neighboring property owner, “We need access to the roof of his building to get the scaffolding up to take the rat down, and he’s found out who Banksy is now, and he wants $5,000 for access to his roof.” In the film, Greif comes off as the guy you’d want to hire for Hollywood-style
