The Artist

The flat brim of his cap shades almost all of his face. The warehouse is lit strongly from behind him making him almost unrecognisable on approach. He is dwarfed by the size of this space. He is crouching, his right arm reaching for the floor, I can’t tell if he is inspecting something but from the faint glow and rising smoke I can tell there is a cigarette in his left hand. I draw close, within ten paces he stands to greet me. He puts out his hand for me to shake, palm down, I look directly at it, and the wiry inked reverse of his hand stares straight back. A swallow, seemingly in flight floats motionless in the centre. Fused to his vein-riddled limb it is the sentinel to a sleeve of ornament that ingurgitates his arm, extending past the cuff of his chequered tartan shirt, tightly turned halfway up his forearm.

I put out my hand. We knew each other well once, I already wasn’t really sure what to say. He put me at ease, “Hey man, good to see ya.” His smile shone through the umber whiskers, his white teeth contrasting the hair that hid his top lip. My eyes raised to his, the faint blue hue unfamiliar but calming. “Hey,” I respond, “it’s been a long time.” Up close now the light reveals a piercing in his nose and the gauged lobe of his ear sporting a hollow ring that I think I could fit my little finger through.

Almost immediately we turn, “Let’s go inside.” “Sure,” I really thought this was inside. This large redbrick warehouse fades into a dark grey haze. It is only the foyer to a host of adjoining rooms. The exposed beams on the ceiling lead us toward an intricate maze of private studio-cum-bedrooms abundantly splattered in colourful graffiti, posters, murals and scripture. My eyes dart in all directions trying to take in the creativity surrounding me, it’s a sensory overload. “This place is cool,” I blurt. “Yeah, I like it. Been here for a few months now, been alright.” He sounds genuine. He continues, “there’s a few fuckwits, but I don’t have to deal with ‘em.” After a few minutes of walking and a couple of flights of stairs we arrive in a room that is larger than my entire apartment. It’s pretty dark and also covered in plenty of decoration, his creation. There is a bed in one corner with a bare leg hanging out the side, “How many people live here?” I ask. “Dunno. Hundred maybe.” He doesn’t really care.

He writes, there are journals and pens tossed across the floor and benches. His poetry inspires, but none of his work has been published. A guitar leans against a chair near the bed. His songs are well known by those close him but they have never had any radio time. The walls are coated in stencils. He has sold paintings, but mainly to tourists, or locals who want to look edgy, fashionable and savvy. The squat is open to anyone who wants to walk through.