As the train moves out of Zone 2 the scenery begins to change. The houses get smaller and darker, the roads narrower, the fences rustier. And almost everywhere you look there are marks – spray-painted and scratched, single unbroken lines and large bulky designs, some are messy and some – works of art. We can dismiss it as vandalism or put it up in the museum, but what we cannot do is deny that graffiti is one of the most fascinating (and often beautiful) social phenomena of the last 50-odd years.

Graffiti started out in the 1960s in urban New York as a means for rival gangs to mark their territory, yet very soon it developed into a form of competition in its own right.

Different boroughs began trying to outdo each other, coming up with fancier styles, more dangerous and prominent places to put it and new techniques to produce it. Because of the number of different strands that have grown out of it, the umbrella term ‘street art’ is now more applicable. It encompasses stencil art, for which Banksy is renowned, sticker bombing ( placing stickers in public places), subvertising (either mimicking or altering a corporate or political advert to create a new, often opposing, statement), and many others.

What in theory makes street art different to all other forms of art is its stance as subversive, rebellious and free. By choosing exactly what they depict and where they depict it the artists do not have to comply with the wishes of the curator or the critic. As far as creativity goes it might well be considered the purest form of artistic expression.

Mass production

In the 90s advertisers caught on to the fact that this free-spirit attitude appeals to a lot market groups. Fashion and sports industries, constantly looking for something fresh and edgy, were quick to jump onto the bandwagon, and graffiti-style work is now splattered all over the media, advertising posters and designer clothes.

As the public’s eyes got accustomed to these new types of images, so their attitude towards them changed from a hostile to accepting. The Bristol authorities for example have now given up trying to buff out all the Banksys, since every attempt to do so was followed by a public outcry.

It has even come to a point where the government and large corporations, the very establishments that street art initially set out to attack in their free-for-all fashion, will now provide the means for the artists to do their work. A demonstrative example was the Cans Festival. Six months ago Eurostar opened up their old Waterloo tunnel to 29 graffiti artists from all over the world, who, in a three-day event, transformed the grotty place into the most surreal, effervescent environment.

What was initially shocking has come to be respecte; the skill that goes into producing this work has been recognised. Graffiti can now even be bought. Angelina Jolie and Christina Aguilera are known collectors of Banksy’s work, though the images are stencilled onto a canvas. It has not entered the mainstream art world, but since museums are often last to catch onto street trends, it’s probably on its way.

With so many different forms of street art, not to mention different individuals within each one, it is impossible to pin- point why people make it. For some it is only a cool style that they perfect in their art school to then reject. For others it becomes a form of activism, the victim of the attack ranging from consumerist society to a specific individual. Others yet, use it as a form of self-assertion.

Yet the common denominator is in the name. Graffiti is art produced on and for the streets. Its power resides in it being part of the environment we inhabit, of appearing on a building that people walk past every day, of being moved around the city on the side of a train; every graff is integrated into a particular area and a particular community. This is why I personally distinguish between the work produced in a sanctioned situation, where the placement is not chosen freely – such as the Cans Festival – and real street art. I was determined to get hold of a real artist.

The word on the street

Upon my arrival to meet Nova – a South East London graffiti artist – at this rather exotic (for me) location, I was instantly informed that ‘there’s not much to do round here, just drugs.’ And graffiti.

These guys don’t do it as a form of activism or in an attempt to become distinguished artists, it is what they do and something of which to be proud. I was initially embarrassed about ‘interviewing’ him, yet each time I asked a question his mate and he would interrupt each other to give me a twenty minute long answer, complete with extravagant praise. The number of thousands of pounds of public damage they’d caused in the last year was cited in the same animated manner. They really put their souls into it.

As Nova’s mate was rolling another spliff, I was trying very hard to get over the embarrassment of my public school accent and ensure that I do not, in an attempt to fit in, suddenly blurt out one their favourite expressions like ‘innit’ or ‘brova’. Hats off to them, since at no point did I actually feel uncomfortable, even considering the striking differences in our appearance, with my having ‘Oxford’ written all over me and their complying with every stereotype of a middle class mother’s worst nightmare.

Like other artists that work illegally they are adrenalin junkies. Here, the greater the challenge, the greater the satisfaction. Nova admitted that when his friend agreed to have his whole house painted over by their crew, it was not as fun as doing it on railway tracks at night, constantly looking over his shoulder. This adrenalin rush is addictive, and once one railway track has been ‘conquered’, the next place chosen will often be a more dangerous one.
Moreover, being hunted down by cops is almost a right of passage, and, once the air is clear, the story of this chase spreads by word of mouth across the whole community, gaining the escapee that little bit more respect.
In this part of town one’s ‘graff’ name is the method of choice, which can be a nickname, a surname or just a pseudonym they come up with themselves; once someone has been recognised for what he does this name will often stick. Nova has not been called by his first name for several years now. There is just something about painting your name as a large, beautiful, distorted picture on the wall of the train station. Something exciting, comforting, powerful.

Anybody with a spray-can, a name and some confidence can produce a ‘bomb’ – a squiggly unbroken line which usually stands for one’s ‘graff’ name. But it not everyone is good at ‘throw-ups’ – quick two-dimensional bubble characters – and very few can do ‘dubs’ – fancy, three-dimensional writing, complete with interior designs, background effects. And that’s where the line between vandalism and art disappears completely. Nova is the best artist in his area, having started ‘bombing’ in early teens and perfected his technique over the years. It now takes him an hour to take a name, stylize it until the characters are unrecognizable unless pointed out, expand it to a few of metres in length and place it onto a wall as a nuclear explosion on the background of the grey industrial warehouse.

Crucially, urban graffiti is linked with community. When working as a group, these guys will write the names of their friends, all part of asserting your group’s presence in the area. And hand-in-hand with this group loyalty goes gang rivalry.

Gangs have differing names and status; they’ve got rules and weapons. Nova’s neighbourhood is pretty colourful on this front. A few years of disagreements between the two most powerful gangs in the area recently led to some unsightly stabbings. Covering the whole enemy street with his and his best friend’s bombs a few weeks before the event probably didn’t help the matter.
Due to safety considerations the guys insisted on walking me to the train station, but before we reached it they had to leg it. A police car had appeared and Nova’s friend was ‘wanted’. On the return I collected my thoughts. Firstly, the whole time I had felt completely safe. Secondly, I had really liked them. And here we have the essence of graffiti – a completely different world, one in which a dub can make or brake you. Sure, the stuff that covers the walls of the Eurostar tunnel is cool and beautiful. But for me graffiti is a culture, not a style.

In an attempt to prove myself capable of being a competent Books and Exhibitions editor, this summer I saw quite a lot of art. As such, I could now knowledgeably expound upon the excellent Tracey Emin or the stirring Walter Hammershoi. I could regale you with tales of all manner of enjoyable bits and pieces at Gateshead’s Baltic. I could produce an acerbic expose of the frankly appalling standard of the pavement chalk drawings currently being produced by some elements of Gloucester’s homeless community.

Frankly, though, I don’t want to write about any of those things. With a glorious inevitability, they were all eclipsed by the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition. I’m hugely fond, and have been for some time, of this particular cultural institution. It does, after all, bear an endearing likeness of the ancient, decrepit, Tory grandee who puts on an admirable show of pride, dignity and deportment even as he dribbles down his own, and adjacent, lapels in the House of Lords.

This is because I’m increasingly convinced that the old duffer is in fact the most cunning piece of contemporary art in existence. It’s a huge and hilarious post-modern joke that revels in how seriously its ramshackle self-importance, nonsensically Victorian attitude and general downright silliness are taken by the attending public. I imagine that somewhere deep beneath London, a crack team of surrealist-anarchist art pranksters, probably led by Marcel Duchamp, Peter Cooke and Salvador Dali – not Banksy, please, never Banksy – are watching CCTV footage of the exhibition rooms on a bank of black and white televisions.

They see you and me drift from ecellent pieces by artists at the tops of their respective games, to things that look like, and probably are, the products of old ladies’ watercolour clubs. Throughout, as we pass from the sublime to the ridiculous to the downright dreadful, we maintain the same expression of dull, unthinking, dim appreciation. Duchamp and his cronies, down in the control room, fall about laughing.

The Summer Exhibition is an occasion tailor-made for a kind of culture-induced rictus grin. We wear it at the RSC, at the Festival Hall and at the Royal Academy; it’s completely pointless, incontrovertibly middle-class, horrifically British, and absolutely, hilariously, wonderful.

I fully intend to keep going to the Royal Academy every year, chuckling knowingly, until the moment when I, standing next to a man with medals on his jacket and a small mammal asleep on his upper lip, gazing dazedly at a small, gaudily-framed picture of a yacht in a tranquil bay, forget that it’s all a joke and start taking it seriously. You should do likewise.

INDIGNATION
PHILIP ROTH
Jonathan Cape, £16.99

A departure from Roth’s recent meditations on the indignities of old age, his new novel revisits the age-old menaces of sex, death and communism. The campus-based tale, set against the backdrop of the Korean War, follows the son of a kosher butcher in 1950s Newark.

Nineteen-year-old freshman, Marcus Messner, attempts to escape his suffocating and overbearing father by leaving college in New Jersey and transfers, somewhat disastrously, to Winesberg College, Ohio. Messner is an A-grade student, while his new classmates are churchgoing, beer-swilling conservatives. Disregarding the Jewish fraternity and determined to escape the claustrophobia of his father’s oppressive love, the butcher’s shop, and the stink of blood and meat, Messner involves himself with a disturbed Gentile named Olivia Hutton.

Alienated by the Christian ethos and confused by his sexual experiences, Messner fears he is only a sexual-transgression away from ending up a doomed rifleman in Korea. His father is proved correct in his abnormal anxiety for his son’s welfare, because Messner is killed in action in Korea.
He is drafted after expulsion from Winesburg, following a series of amusing clashes with college authorities, charting Roth’s return to comic form. Roth condemns Messner to an afterlife of endless metaphysical incomprehension, doomed to revisit the events of his life. While death is a unifying preoccupation of Roth’s later work, the clumsy shift in narration from first person to third in the final chapter, spelling out Messner’s fate for anyone who hasn’t quite worked it out, is an ill-considered strategy which disrupts the otherwise propulsive and visceral narrative. But without Roth’s characteristically taught style, the novel would simply be a series of comic set-pieces which didn’t make the cut in his earlier works.

Messner’s sexual hi-jinks are not unlike that of previous Roth protagonist Mickey Sabbath, masturbating on his beloved’s grave; he is not simply another of Roth’s fictional alter-egos, but a far darker creation of sexual insecurity. The amount of sex (as in any Roth novel) is not quite enough to be gratuitous.
It is never an end in itself but a principal source of terror and neuroticism. While this may sound like well-trodden ground to anyone who has read at least one of Roth’s 29 novels on sex, conformity and religious and moral rectitude, it is anything but formulaic.

Much more satisfying than his last novel, the sorely disappointing Exit Ghost, Indignation is a combination of the poignant disenchantment of Roth’s recent works, and the righteous anger of his earlier novels.

3 Stars