The Street Artist

"Have you heard? That bloody Banksy's been up to it again!"

An old lady in front of Danny in the queue was pointing to her newspaper while the cashier nodded sagely in time to the scanner's "Beep!"

"He should be strung up! Why can't they find him with all this reality TV?"

CCTV, Danny silently corrected.

Daft old bag. He knew all about Banksy, one of his idols. Danny was not a bad kid but he found that he had an urge to graffiti his home town, spraying like a tom cat in a neighbour's garden. He'd done some stellar work by the allotments until an old guy caught him red-handed (consequence of using a leaky can of vermilion) and almost pitched a fork after him. It had been painted over the day after, probably by the same miserable old art-hating bastard.

Today, though, he had found a wall bordering an alley which he could use as his canvas and was keen to plaster it with his creation. More private, less interruptions. May not get caught.

He was daydreaming about it when the old woman poked him and said, "Oy, moonbeam! People behind you are waiting!"

The old lady shuffled off and he scowled after her.

He placed the tins of spray paint on the conveyor, excited. Looking after the old lady mischievously, he knew just what he'd paint.

*

In the alley, he'd just finished when he heard an "Oy!" and without hesitation, ran. His mum would kill him and so, he ran like the wind.

*

That night, he was astounded to see his creation on the news. The old bag from the supermarket was next to it. She didn't look angry but was standing proudly infront of her exaggerated likeness, enjoying the publicity.

"It reminds me of Picasso," she said. "He was a right one, you know. Very handsy."

The reporter interviewing, asked,

"And how do you feel about graffiti, Mrs Ludlum?"

"Well, if it's done well it doesn't do any harm. I mean, look at that Banksy. And this isn't graffiti! This is Art!"

Danny smiled.

Still, he couldn't help wondering if she would have called it Art if it hadn't been of her.

***

366 words

You have Raymond Taylor's Behold the Banksy to thank for the inspiration behind this microfiction today because he wrote an interesting piece yesterday about Banksy and the old "Is it Art or is it vandalism?" debate which seems to surround his pieces. When does graffiti become Art? And vice versa?

Here's Ray's piece for context and because it's an insightful read:

I've also noticed that I might be off with my numbers. I have no idea how that happened but will blame it on my head being all over the place. Ah well. At least I know I've written a microfiction every day, I suppose.

Thanks for stopping by! If you do read this, please leave a comment as I love to interact with my readers.

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