Given the amount of chalking on this campus, and the fact that it's 2011, I'm still trying to figure out which of my two most recent experiments is the more foreign of the pair among Daily readers — street art or good, old, traditional dating.
In any case, the two went hand in hand this week. Our nearby Central Square, it turns out, is not only the site of The Middle East and Matt Damon's origins but a rich graffiti landscape as well. Modica Way, better known as The Wall at Central Square, is the most famed of the layered murals — spattered with the recognizable Banksy and Shepard Fairey images amid a gorgeous neon potpourri of aliens, caricaturized icons and wormy−looking creatures — but the whole neighborhood is filled with them.
Probably to up his street cred, my date suggested we do a graffiti tour of the area. I agreed, on the condition that instead of just touring, we added our own mark to the mélange.
Unfortunately, a cop had stationed himself just off Modica Way, so, neglecting to have looked into the legality of street art prior to my excursion, I thought we'd better find another venue for our own masterpiece. My date had spotted a site earlier, so we hiked along the side of the highway and down a dirt−lined staircase to an abandoned railway track on an abandoned bridge by the Charles. (More street cred, I guessed.)
Except, for all the abandonment involved, the spot wasn't exactly abandoned. The plot of land leading up to the railway seemed to have been settled by a gaggle of geese, which wouldn't have been too big a problem had the geese not decided to mobilize every time I took a step forward. And then be joined by more geese. And ducks. And pigeons.
It was like crashing a cast reunion of "The Birds." And getting stuck being "it" in their game of Red Light/Green Light. I took a step back; the phalanx relaxed. I look a step forward; it was ready to charge. This dance went on for what seemed like forever until we finally managed, crouching and supporting ourselves on branches, to climb around the birds and make a run for it.
On the bridge at last, we managed to ditch our avian nemeses, who, save for an advancing and retreating trio of pigeons, more or less left us alone once we pulled out our spray cans. (I resigned myself to the idea that the street cred might actually be working.) Our venue, at last, was secured.
Having been inspired by the craftsmanship of Central Square, but lacking entirely in artistic capabilities, when it came to our tag, we decided to settle for something literal and obnoxious rather than aesthetic — something like "art." Or "ARt," actually. Originally, the lower case "t" resulted from there not being enough space on the line, but retrospectively, it took on an inexplicable and ironic message, which I hear is a pretty fool−proof M.O. for street artists.
Soon after we had tagged up the bridge and tracks several times over, we saw the now−familiar blinking lights of the law on the highway overhead. Deciding to put ourselves at the mercy of the birds — whose respect we seemed to have gained — rather than potentially angry policemen, we left just as we came, climbing and crouched, through the army of feathered animals, this time with more speed and less prudence.
I returned to campus with haste, thankful for my health and my bit of newly acquired knowledge: One, that there need not be anything too traditional about traditional dates. And two, that birds don't mess with street artists.
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