The whispers of a thousand artists infused in every stone…”See me.” ” Hear me.” “Love me.” And I do. Every single one. From Marseille to American Canyon, the world’s street art is a rapture to me. I belong here…the art that surrounds me, is as much alive…as hungry to be heard.

Art is evidence of the every day–

The clanking of dishes washed, just out of view. The smell of curry seeping through crusted slats. The quiet laughter of secrets shared spilling down ancient plaster into my soul And the laundry…oh yes and especially the laundry. I am bathed in the overwhelming sense of coming home. This is life. The anthem of the every day. Evidence of the putting on and taking off and doing it all over again. This is the unrehearsed rhythm of being. These are the colors of love; the cotton flags of humanity, headlines to graffiti voices just below.

When abandoned cement factory overtaken with urban street art in the middle of a dusty field becomes the venue for a swanky adult “burning man” vibe soiree to benefit kids and parks. As an artist/urban storyteller obsessed with street art, I found myself right at home.

Morning ritual—brush teeth. Smoke cigarette. Choose hat. Clean boots. 
Breathing art. Captured in a moment. Lived through a lifetime of tiny choices.
Random? Maybe. 
But then again, too perfect not to wonder if something “other” is at play.
The work of a Master, perhaps.
Each brushstroke calculated. 
A prophesy for our enjoyment.
We are the work of His hand. And when we question IF and WHERE we belong, this happens.
We, who are often oblivious, are essential to the scene. Not simply for us. But for the one who notices.

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