The following day, I rode my bicycle to the Urban Spree Gallery to pick up the prints that I'd purchased. I met the gallery owner, Pascal who was a genuinely pleasant gentleman. He was happy to talk with me about the process behind the work of the Broken Fingaz gents. I gathered that oil paint is the best medium to use on top of spraypaint. I also was happy to hear that the Borken Fingaz use little digital process in the creation of their prints, and installments.
After my errand, I took a train home (in interest of not damaging the artworks), then fell asleep to try to reverse back my backwards sleep schedule.
The reverse worked. I happily awoke this morning to a beautiful market on the street in front of my apartment. I bought a stem of red grapes, and an apple for breakfast, then walked to the graffiti shop to celebrate the morning with a painting. I bought several cans, including green which I rarely use in my palette but was convinced that it would be a good idea by my shop-friend, Yulia. I set out for the legal wall at Mauer Park, and found a good spot. I painted for hours and met some new friends and fellow artists at the wall. I was the most senior writer at the wall, and such was approached by many younger writers with compliments. I drew a piece in a young man's sketchbook and taught him a bit about piecing. I was happy with how my piece was coming out. Towards the end of the painting, two thugs walked by my arrangement of cans (essentially, my palette). They slowed down considerably. One of them picked up a can and waited for me to ask him to give it back. I grabed his arm and aked him to give the can back. He swung his arm in a punch toward my face, which I dodged. He threw the can at me then began to charge at me, throwing punches and kicking. I asked what the fuck he was doing. He shouted insults in German and landed a few punches to my face, knocking my glasses to the ground. I backed towards my new friends to see if they would have my back if I began fighting. It was clear to me that they would not. I felt that there was nothing to be done. Looking back at my bag and cans, I saw a small crew forming, there were four other thugs. My assailant turned to raid my bag. He took the cans with paint in them, and threw the empties at me, yelling manically through the whole thing. I only cared about my sketchbook, and my wallet, which to my relief he overlooked. My friends picked up my glasses for me, and I saw the young man who assulted me tag the letters of his crew over my piece. I wasn't scared. I cocked my hip and stood behind the gang while they essentially circle-jerked to beating up, robbing, and insulting me. When they finished, they walked away together and I waved goodbye. I walked home. My ear was bleeding and the side of my face began to hurt. I washed the blood away in the sink in my apartment bathroom. The thug had torn a small gash on my ear from the force of a punch. Aside, from the minor pain, everything seemed alright.
I went down to the cafe to process what implications this event could have. Perhaps it signifies the last piece of graffiti that I will ever do, perhaps it represents a shift from street-art to fine art. Only time will tell about these speculations and interpretations. What I did conclude after today's event is that I don't particularily like Berlin. Being abused by a gang is not the extent of my dissatisfaction, Berlin has been rude-crude and lacking in spirit since I arrived. I have tried. I have made work here, work which I am proud of, but the cost has been an arm and a leg and bit by bit my sanity. I am figthing the feeling that the remainder of my time here will be marked by a feeling of pending status.
Tomorrow is a new day. I hope I don't get mugged again.
