Jenny and James and I went for a walk in Station North this past weekend to see more of the murals. I love this one. The graphic lines of the woman’s age, the flat planes of sheets, drying. The evocative slope of her eyes and the arc of her finger, vigilant. Her wary surveillance of this neighborhood’s change.
The building is covered in murals: on its walls and in its windows. I find I like unbounded ones the best: these ones that seem to grow from the bricks and concrete of the buildings. Unframed, with no painted backgrounds, they fill these city shapes and spaces, their negative space formed by the background of this neighborhood.
Here is another one unbound like this: the telephone wires and winnowy trees interrupted only by the architectural squares of our own real sky, the boy about to ride out from this wall on his outsized bicycle. This moment is full of power: the boy’s size, the baroquian potential of his movement, his handlebars highlighted by the building’s silvered cement.
These pieces do not try to cover up their context; in their form and content they inhabit, insist, on place.