Political, social, territorial : the streets are nothing but a canvas to anyone itching to let their voice be heard.
Graffiti began as writing under pressure. Names drawn fast on walls, trains, doors. The city turned into a notebook passed between strangers. Paint mixed with dust, rain, rust. Surfaces held the marks of everyone who moved through.
Writers moved at night, climbing fences, dodging lights. Tags stretched from one block to another, half erased, half reborn. Styles grew from habit — hands trying to finish before the can ran out, before the sirens came.
City workers covered what they could, but color kept coming back. Layers built thick and uneven, new names over old ones, a kind of argument that never stopped. Spray, markers, glue, whatever worked that night. The act changed shape all the time, but the pull behind it stayed constant, to leave something, even if it disappeared by morning.
Later came the murals, the pieces that filled whole walls. Faces, slogans, codes. The city became a moving surface, reworked every day. Some of it got copied and sold. Some stayed underground, quiet, unnoticed, spreading through tunnels and rooftops.
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