Karl Marx has this theory of social alienation that puts forward the idea that in a capitalist system, much like the 24-hour consumer party that we Americans find ourselves bogged down in, the lower rungs of the war of Classes are pressured to conform to those who own the means of production and so we do shitty jobs, put up with shitty job requirements, and smile and strip away the drab taste of coffee and the ever-increasing weight of daily grind.
And anything or any form of expression outside of that pre-made box is wrong.
However, in a pure Marxist society (I can’t stress that word enough), the owners of the capital no longer make the rules because they no longer own the capital. How sweet it is to imagine a world where we don’t have to work primarily to enrich our bosses, where social classes are eradicated and everyone joyfully pushes towards equitable contribution and equitable redistribution of wealth. Or perhaps more importantly, imagine a world with no KEEP OUT signs; a world where every factory wall and subway tunnel is suddenly in the public domain, free to use or draw as you see fit.
Because the more I sit in my apartment and reflect on the subject, the more I realize that Wu Tang said it best when he told us that: “Cash rules everything around me.” We live in a consumer culture, bound by an insatiable need to turn every product, marketable skill, or good idea into a commodity. But if the bourgeoisie can’t find a profitable way to mass-produce it, society locks that shit down like an angry Ben Wallace.
So let’s examine the art: graffiti.
Illegal. feared Shunned by social norms and described as cancers to communities, a destructive virus that consumes and devours worthy values until suddenly there’s a crack house next door Or maybe just another victim of Marx’s social alienation. Let’s face it, America really doesn’t have a problem with graffiti as long as they can make money off of it. The style has been imitated and exploited in almost every market, from designer T-shirts to XBOX games to countless hip-hop album covers. Yet for all this corporate love, the act of getting up and putting paint on the walls is still punishable by prison terms and big debts.
Graffiti is the art form of the proletariat. The bourgeoisie cannot sell the walls of their factories, so whatever the workers write on them will eventually stay. It is an art that cannot be exploited by those who own the means of production, because graffiti exploits them first. The proletarian artist is using the property of the bourgeoisie as a canvas, essentially redistributing the use of the property to the people. In that sense, graffiti writing becomes the last truly free artistic vehicle; it cannot be recorded and does not have to be taught. Anyone can participate, regardless of class, race, religious preference, or sexual orientation. Graffiti does not even require the consumption of any material if the artist does not wish to purchase it. In keeping with old-school ethics, paint should be stolen from supply stores as an act of liberation from the financial death traps of the bourgeoisie, but really, all you need is a rock and a hard surface to scratch. to leave his mark.
Historically speaking, the movement was born and has always been about the class struggle. Graffiti provided an outlet for the young, angry and poor to express their grievances with society and make their presence known in their communities without costing them a dime. The movement grew by leaps and bounds, and pretty soon cities around the world were suddenly awash with words and bright colors, as if everyone on the planet was picking up a can and rising up. Marx himself would easily classify the “graffiti hooligan” as a member of the lumpenproletariat, a derivative of the working class lured or forced into criminal activity as a means of a.) surviving within the current class structure on his own terms or b. . ) to provoke the state towards social reform. Depending on which Marxist you’re talking to, the lumpenproletariat can be counter-revolutionary or pro.
However, a closer examination of history shows us that graffiti has been deployed as a powerful tool for vocalizing political dissent and forcing its message into a public forum. Mao Zedong, the former premier of communist China, was arrested by police after writing a 4,000-character manifesto on the wall of a university bathroom. In the 1960s, graffiti was used both in the American civil rights movement, the anti-Vietnam movement (SDS, Weathermen, The Black Panthers, etc.) and the May 1968 rebellions in France, where the streets of Paris suddenly came alive and colored with a thousand different slogans and maxims of the downtrodden and downtrodden. The early punk scenes also embraced the prophetic power of graffiti as fans of the anarchist band CRASS began placing their logos all over the London Underground. Each example preceded some type of major social change.
But the United States does not want this change. And American doesn’t want graffiti. The United States wants to benefit from the production of its citizens; the system wants you to buy canvases and paintings, to pay gallery rents, to tax your income from the sale of works of art. And if their designs become popular, the United States wants to buy the license and start rolling them out like crack. It’s all about the bottom line.
To understand the criminal association with graffiti one must examine it as an extension of the capitalist attitude of “ownership over people” and how Marx and other social philosophers define an indisputable link between capitalism, imperialism and elitism. In the United States, the nature of the state is to protect, first and foremost, the investments of big business and those who control the money. Any Noam Chomsky book can tell you that this business/political hybrid has historically served as a catalyst for countless social struggles and transnational aggressions. From the organization of civil struggles in Latin America against established left-wing governments to the current War on Terror, the reach of capitalism is extensive. And anyone who resists getting involved in that system is kicked out entirely, and graffiti writers are no exception.
Political scientist Michael Parenti once said at a conference (later sampled in Choking Victim’s No Gods/No Managers) that it is a common misconception in this country that the police are here to fight crime, “the primary function of the police is to social control and property protection.” Applying that observation to the way most US judicial systems handle graffiti cases, the connection is more obvious than ever.
I live in Pittsburgh. And in the news all summer was the story of a Yinzer artist who went through MFONE, currently charged with 6 felonies, 18 misdemeanors for vandalism and trespassing could face higher fines and a longer jail sentence than most rapists and murderers. The charges will most likely be reduced, but still, the only way this could even be rationalized as fairness is if we also assume that the facade of buildings is collectively worth more than the lives of citizens. No politician, district judge or donut-eating cop will admit that, but on paper, the evidence is there in dollars and cents.
But despite all this political juxtaposition, the simple zen truth of the whole thing is that graffiti is an act of creation, misinterpreted as an act of destruction. Paint is less deadly than bullets, alcohol, and cigarettes, but less accepted on the streets than all three combined. Most writers aren’t deranged, rampant criminals hell-bent on heralding gang warfare and urban decay, they’re just workers with something to say, looking for a place to say it. And in a Marxist world, that would be fine. No private ownership, no social alienation, no overzealous justice departments flipping through Myspace for evidence, just a collective community of opinionated people, laying claim to the city and coloring it however they want. I stopped writing in a serious sense years ago, but every time I see a well-placed lighter or a thoughtful phrase etched on a bathroom wall, I’m more satisfied than I ever would be looking at a damn billboard. The answer, my friends, is not in the wind. It’s written on the fucking wall.
No Comment