For most of my life I’ve created art in some form or another, unfortunately I was never the best artist in the class. Matter of fact most of my friends were so much more artistically talented than I. Nevertheless, I ended up being one of the only ones who kept creating art and turned it into a career years later.

Throughout grade school, I kept creating. I dabbled in various forms of mediums. One of my favorites, spray paint was the one medium I couldn’t get my hands on as easily as crayons, colored pencils, or markers. Those were boring and I had been looking for something almost forbidden to a child. Lucky enough for me my dad was a very creative carpenter and had spray paint of all types just lying around in his shop. I snuck into his shop and started to look around for the perfect color.

I felt my heart pounding because if my dad caught me it would be a spank fest. I must have been 8 or 9 years old and I already had a reputation of “prowling around”. That’s when I saw it, it stood out among the rest of them. I needed it and so I grabbed it and got out of the shop before I got caught. I hid the spray paint can under my shirt and ran across the yard to find the one piece I had to test it on. It was cold against my stomach and I could hear the ball bearing inside the can roll around.

I couldn’t find anything to paint without my cover being exposed and totally getting in trouble for it. I looked everywhere and I almost chickened out and returned the paint can back to the shop. Lucky (or unlucky) for me the house next door had been vacant for years and in the backyard an old shed sat with broken glass and wooden panels falling off. Surely no one would care about that building. So I made sure nobody was looking and I climbed over the fence. There I stood staring at the blank wall, I had no idea what I was going to paint.

All that hard work to get the paint, choose the color, jump the fence, and now I stood clueless at the decrepit building; paint can in hand. I rattled the can thinking back about seeing my dad do it all those years. I struggled to get the cap off, scraping my hand against the cap once it popped off unexpectedly.

I still didn’t know what to paint but I began anyway scribbling carelessly all over the side of the shed. I made crosses, happy faces, and most likely my name… I knew better than that so I painted a big square over it to cover it up. It wasn’t anything special but something new, something forbidden, and I wanted more.

It couldn’t have been more than 10 minitues later, when all of the sudden, my dad showes up out of nowhere. By this time I had thrown the empty spray paint can into a bush along with the cap. I stood before him, most likely in shock and hiding my now painted hands behind my back.

My dad glanced away from me as he asked me “what the hell was I doing in the neighbor’s yard.” when he glanced up at the shed that he no longer recognized as old and decrepit but bright Orange and quite noticeable; a happy face from an unknown distance smiling for all to see from a few blocks away.

Of course….I lied to him but he knew better. I was caught “orange-handed” and sent inside to wash my hands clean. I now prepared my mind for what was next. The most likely punishment would be whooping. Ah, my favorite! The memory cuts off even though I try my hardest to remember anything more from that day. Knowing my dad he probably yelled at me and moved on from there. I wasn’t really the type to do things twice if the first time didn’t go too well; until a certain amount of time has passed at least.

It wasn’t until a few years later, in my teens, that I would try my hand at tagging again. This time on an abandoned trailer house in which one of my ex-girlfriends once resided. I was miles away from my home and hanging with my friends. I didn’t have to worry about my dad showing up but what I didn’t expect was the police to show up unannounced.

The artwork was no good. Just some dirty words as big and as red as they could possibly be. This wasn’t art, this was graffiti, property damage, huge fines for my parents, and a possible year-long or more ban from hanging with my friends again. So I did what any teen would do and I put the spray can down and ran towards the alley and jumped the fence. My other friends scattered in all directions.

The cop would eventually give up on trying to catch us that day. We all sneaked into one friend’s house to lay low. Peaking out the window every now and then to see if the police were searching for us. The rush and the excitement finally started to fade a few hours later. We most likely moved on to playing some Nintendo 64 and totally forgot about the close call.

From that point on I fell in love with the art of graffiti, street art, tagging, whatever you want to call it. I wasn’t the best at it, nor did I practice it often. But it was something deep down inside me that I rediscovered years later when I got into creating art professionally as an adult. It’s a massive part of me and I often follow street artists on social media from all over the world just to stay in the loop. It inspires me and it reminds me of a time when I could experiment with mediums, oftentimes tied with unknown consequences. Art and suburban medium that is sometimes so controversial that it creates active discussion. It’ll always be part of the things I create. I don’t do much spray painting with the things I create today but the very essence of street art can still be seen in the designs I make, from the logos and branding to flyers, t-shirts, and traditional art. Street art will always be a part of me. I’ll always smile and stare at the train cars that fly by as I sit idle at the railroad crossings. Moving art galleries I call them.

I pay my respects to all of the graffiti artists all over the world, from the ones tagging train cars during the cover of the night to the ones scaling large buildings just to put their mark on top of the world for all to see.

I’ll rattle a can in your honor.