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Graffiti Time
If These Walls Could Talk
When Roald’s agent phoned to say that the gallery was canceling his new exhibition, his first thought was arson. He knew a guy. His second thought was that he also knew guys at other galleries. Wisely or not, Roald went with his second impulse.
A lot of good that did him.
If any bothered to return his calls, the answer was always no.
In April of 1962, everyone Roald knew was getting the same runaround. Three years ago they had ruled the art scene. Now no one wanted to talk to them. He took to sitting around coffee shops with his other loser artist friends.
“Fuck Andy Warhol.” Said Gus, despondently pouring brandy into his coffee.
“Fuck pop art.” Said Joanne, the token female abstract expressionist of the scene who had never quit her day job.
“Fuck Campbell’s soup.” Said Roald which earned him confused scowls around the table.
Roald’s solution came to him in dreams he tried to ignore. But within the next couple of years, he was haunting underpasses and train yards, befriending the kids beginning to tag trains and buildings uptown.
The graffiti first appeared on several gallery walls in Soho. The first wave consisted of giant bubbles filled with classical art masterpieces…
