By John Spudich
He flattened himself in the shadows under the bridge, police flashlights roving eyeless in the dark. Infamous yet wholly unknown, he had slipped in and marked many secret rooftops and alleyways, hissing visions night after night into the city’s dreaming mind.
They shouted, seeing his gear, and raptorial footfalls cracked loud in the wide, hard space.
He regarded his latest work sprayed quick, bold, and bright on the hidden concrete enclave: a tall wooden door with a shiny knob reflecting the swirling cosmos.
Clack! Clack! Clack! The police were closing in. The artist reached for his door. And found it locked.
I found this sneaky nighttime creator fascinating. What an ending, when he thought his art could be a doorway to escape … only to be faced with reality, the locked door of the law.
I’m so glad I read this twice to fully appreciate its brilliance.
Wow
I wonder if Banksy has ever found himself in this situation! Great job.