For all of Switzerland's famed politeness, cleanliness, and discreetness, this country has a lot of graffiti. As soon as you arrive in Geneva it's impossible to miss the signs marking up city trashcans with the supplication "Laisse Geneve propre" (Keep Geneva clean), and the spray-painted "Yankee, go home" adorning the garden walls of the World Health Organization.
On my second day here, riding the bus to school in a haze of jet lag and nervousness, my gut reaction to the constant display of sprayed language was one of revulsion. Graffiti... in Switzerland? I was willing to accept the denigration of chain links on the Cross Bronx or gang markers in East Somerville, but Switzerland was supposed to be as clean and fresh as Heidi and her grandfather's lambs. And here existed blocks and blocks of graffiti, grinning lewdly at me every morning on the bus.
One afternoon, disgusted by the fresh spraying at the lovely Pont d'Ile, I decided I simply needed to change my approach. Who was I pretending to be, anyway? Some uptight, old-fashioned European? No, I was a hip, young American, fresh from the crucible of America's greatest college town, and, furthermore, I was an artist. Well, a musician. But I could handle this. Graffiti is art, integral to the countercultural identity of the places humans live and call home, and I would accept it for its radical exultation in the artistic expression of social and political thought. "Laisse Geneve proper" would become my new anthem.
So on subsequent bus rides and walks around town, I looked more closely at the endless boulevards and trashcans, searching for the art. There were certainly a good number of interesting anti-American and anti-globalization monikers -- "Down G8" across from the United Nations building, and an amusing/annoying (depending on your political allegiance) analogy on a trashcan on the Avenue de la Paix, also across from the U.N., which reads, "Bush Satan."
While I enjoyed the eyebrow-raising quality of these moments, I still found myself searching for the artistic side to all this graffiti. Like a good art history student, I put the art of Genevois graffiti in four distinct categories: anti-American, anti-globalization, random squiggles on a wall, and the word F--K printed as clearly as if the sprayer had used a stencil.
It was this last category that ultimately killed my attempt to find the art in Swiss graffiti. It ended suddenly one morning when a young guy, maybe fifteen, boarded the bus sporting black gothic fashion, an Eastpack, and roller blades. His backpack, succinctly branded as "Made in the U.S.A.," was covered in that middle school version of graffiti, the type that comes from a Sharpie. "F--K off," it proclaimed clearly. He even had a lanyard stating his motto, just in case it rained. Leave it to the Swiss to plan their use of obscenities in the event of inclement weather.
So yes, I admit: my suddenly un-hip, conservative self took one look at his choice of personal expression and was seriously offended. Who the f--k did these Europeans think they were, throwing around our extremely rude American expression like it was "darn" or "golly gee"? I, as an American, can say "F--K" whenever I f--king want to, but this is not an item for export.
First of all, this punk on the bus definitely did not understand exactly what he was shouting to the world by scrawling the worst American expletive all over his Made in the U.S.A. backpack. Secondly, if Europe wants to complain about the wave of cultural corruption coming from my country, they shouldn't so lithely pick up the worst of our construction yard (or Tufts quad) language to emblazon on their centuries-old buildings and city park gates. And thirdly, how is the word f--k artistic? Spraying one word on a wall hardly earns my artistic respect, and besides, it's an overused concept. The art of the F--K declaration loses its punch when it's sprayed every 500 feet.
As the bus rolled silently on, powered by the wonders of electricity and natural gas (Switzerland rejects American pollution and our disgusting reliance on dirty petroleum), I further cemented my renunciation of Swiss graffiti. First of all, sprayers here only ever paint words, never images. I thought back to a recent trip to Philadelphia and my awe at the anonymous graffiti along the side streets of downtown, displaying thoughtful and one-of-a-kind visual reflections on the culture of that specific city block and the identity of its residents in the milieu of greater Philadelphia.
Had I seen such an expression here in Geneva? Certainly not -- the closest I had ever come was seeing a bunch of squiggles near Place du Cirque. And how about gang signage under alleyways and at corners, that great sociological notice to the world that us humans, like animals, still mark our territory and band together in brotherhoods of violence and protection? Perhaps it does exist here, although I have seen evidence of it. Then again, who am I kidding? The most offensive youth I ever saw in Switzerland was wearing roller skates and an Eastpack -- do gangs even exist here?
So yes, I'll admit that that kid on the bus really got me, and that I'm still pissed when I see F--K covering the sides of a classic example of 19th century industrial architecture. But the graffiti here in Switzerland, like most everything else in Switzerland, is ultimately tame, and even somewhat sweet. This is a country that still takes votes by hand in some areas, and where cows and sheep wear hand-painted, hand-cast bells around their necks as normally as your pet cat wears a flea collar.
Perhaps their graffiti needs a little artistic development before I'll feel comfortable with it covering their buildings and streets. For now, I'll have to settle for the occasional snigger over an anti-Bush slogan, and the continual reminder, as printed neatly on trashcans and newspaper bins, to "Laisse Geneve proper," the true Swiss way.
