Exhibitionism and a Dark Alley
He wore a Chicago Blues Fest t-shirt. Grant Park, it read. It was red, white and blue. Out of place on a day like that day. Yet, he followed me, pushing his stroller laden with his little girl sporting red shoes and the pink shirt that proclaimed she was a ‘Girly’ on the back.
I found some random graffiti, and I wanted to take a quick photo while MTM paid our tab and my friend Alison went to the facilities in our hip-and-cool Sao Paulo spot. So, I snuck around the corner for a quickie. At least, I thought it would be a quickie. The man in the Chicago shirt changed all that.
“There’s more. Around the corner. To the right.” He spoke slowly, his native Portuguese making certain I understood his faltering English before he left me. He directed me to an artistic wonderland of graffiti, though I didn’t know it then. Really, I didn’t thank him properly for following me, because he evaporated too soon.
We wandered along a cobbled street and turned the corner as instructed. The street opened into an outdoor gallery, street art that went on and on and on. It was gorgeous. Colorful. Illicit. Almost like the photos Liz Duren snapped of me on the eve of my fortieth birthday. She picked the location, and it was also a riot of graffiti.
Perfect for me. Both of these places, covered in color. How did he know I would love it? Why did he follow me?
Have you ever taken a wrong turn and found a riot of art?
This post is the fifth installment in the series Eye of the Beholder, my wandering observations about works of art that speak to me. If this is your first visit to the series, please click here to catch up on the first post, go here for the second, here for the third and here for the fourth.