He was an old graffiti artist, in the best tradition of Kilroy — and also “he was here” — one of thosehardly seen anymore. But over the years he was introduced to the syndrome of centralization. He took to accumulating spray paints of all colors. He cornered and amassed them in a storeroom pending the big day. Nevertheless, after some years he began to use a single color. Many thought that it was not a strange symptom, but a strategy of artistic survival. Others said that it was to save the other colors, but no one knew for sure. The case is that he painted everything green; not to allude to theological virtue or to sustain himself in the illusion of a chimera, but in the uniform of everlasting hope. Nevertheless, as much as he liked green, it exhausted him. But he loved his space and home country so muchthat he began to groom the wind with his graffiti, phrases and drawings, like a colored shield against alienation “from outside.”
After some years I saw him and sadly realized how he had neglected his personal appearance. Under his fingernails, the undefined blackish color of abandon,lost and confused in scratching the beard on his face. He barely stopped to talk with me. He looked around uneasily, excused himself because he was in a hurry and told me had a lot of work to do, because he was tocover with oceans and jars — without using green — all the walls of the city. He drew near to give me a kiss goodbye and whispered in my ear that he was going to make his own multicolor aurora borealis so that the satellites will not spy on him.
October 21 2012