start off with you age x (8? 10? 12?) elementary or middle school: spacing out in the backseat of parents blue volvo station wagon driving home on the 405 from the grandparents house in tarzana.  you catch sight of some dope ass graffiti and you (abby, rebel, artist, wacko, extraordiniare) are transfixed.  you ask your parents (maybe stereotype them as a little bit more square, super into old school value system, morality, integrity, etc…) they tell you its the work of criminals, gang members, etc… (illegal, trash, ruining the city, etc….) you can’t stop thinking about it.  

cut to high school (14? 15? 16?) befriend the badseed neighbor boy after he crashes his car into your parents fence.  he’s a little dangerous, like nobody you’ve ever met before, you’re instantly attracted to him, you connect via your common aesthetic interests.  you go hang out at his buddy’s house one night.  the bedroom is covereeed in tags and they are showing you this binder of hundreds of photos of all their shit and you are all like wtf ive never experienced anything like this before.  you are a little scared, a little excited… you have that memory of your parents explanation of graffiti from when you are little and part of you loves it now because you are this rebellious teenager trying to make that distinction from the constraints of your overprotective parents but part of you (the artist, the maturing young woman) is entranced solely based on its visual capacity.  they invite you to go out tagging with them one night… 

sneak out of your house or you break your curfew or somethingggg…..heart beating, palms sweating, you’re all wearing tattered black hoodies and ratty converse.  you climb down the steep slope, spotted with littered garbage that people (upright citizens, not criminals, “good people”) have hurled out their windows while flying down the fdub.  you trip on a rock and brenden grabs your hand.  you get butterflies.  crunchhh central.  hormones raging.  he and x (andre? bob? oscar?) take out some krylon spraypaint and start goin at it.  brenden tosses you a disposable camera followed by a sexy lil’ wink.  you feel great now.  somewhere in the distance you hear sirens but it doesn’t matter cause the wind is grazing your blushing cheeks and you are freeeeeee.  they finish their shit, you snap some pix, run off. smoke your first j in his car and make out before he drops you off.  you’re a fucking woman now.

cut to college.  you are a seasoned pyt.  youve had multiple lovers.  you read books.  you took fucking ap art.  youve been to mother fuckin’ europe.  you go to bard college for god’s sake.  you actually enjoy museums.  you talk to different types of people.  people that didn’t grow up in shiny brentwood suburb of los angeles and go to a private jewish high school on the infamous mullholland drive.  people from small towns in the middle of america and big cities in the north east and artists and philosophers and whatever the fuck else people in the forest study.  you start hearing names like basquiat and banksy and haring and whoever.  you discover flavorpill and artnet and art news and art and auction and you take contemporary art classes and you walk down the crumbling streets of broolyn hipster headquarters.  you start to appreciate graffiti or street art or urban art of whatever you are calling it in  way that you couldn’t even imagine in high school or when you were a kid.  you have questions.  you take classes.  you read books.  you read zines.  you read blogs. 

you are now doing your senior project on: x y and z

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