10 April 6–12, 2023 dallasobserver.com DALLAS OBSERVER Classified | MusiC | dish | Culture | unfair Park | Contents CANNED GOODS Graffiti artists spray paint Dallas into a street art destination. BY DESIREE GUTIERREZ T he northeast exterior wall of Deep Ellum Self Storage, at 3215 Hickory St., is a 6,300-square- foot canvas covered in graffiti. The wall has 20 panels cloaked in letters drawn so intricately that only a graffiti artist could read them. That lettering is embellished with 3D styling and abstract, surrealist and semi-surrealist art by the best graffiti artists nationwide. Next to the lettering, classic New York- style graffiti colors the view from Interstate 30. A few panels down, an Aztec warrior princess crowned with a teal headdress con- fidently glares into the horizon. Soon, two Quetzalcoatl, feathered serpent gods, will join her. To her right, a meticulously de- tailed bison and horse navigate a mountain- ous landscape. Across South Trunk Avenue, a 4,000-square-feet of brick wall is embel- lished with nostalgic touchstones: There’s Ella, from the 1988 psychological thriller Monkey Shines; Toy Story’s Babyface; and Star Wars’ Boba Fett. These walls are a blank slate for Trigger Fingers, an annual invitation-only graffiti jam in Dallas. The event welcomes artists to use the space to create spray-painted artwork. The fourth iteration of Trigger Fingers took form on Saturday, April 1, at Deep Ellum Self Storage. Fifty graffiti artists from Dallas and beyond participated in the largest Trigger Fin- gers graffiti jam to date this year. The public is invited to watch these artists in action as they create a sanctioned graffiti art production that celebrates graffiti as an art form. “All this graffiti that you see on the free- ways, the graffiti that you see on abandoned buildings, it’s an art form,” Trigger Fingers co-founder and graffiti artist Ray Albarez says. “It’s basically someone who wants to tell the world that they exist, that they’re here.” Trigger Fingers was founded in 2019 by Albarez, along with graffiti artists Bobby Janss and Danny Dejong. The trio wanted to create an opportunity for artists to showcase the intricacies of works of graffiti when given resources, time and a legal space. The practice is a response against the respecta- bility politics of the fine art realm, Albarez says, which has shunned graffiti art since its inception. “A lot of street art wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t graffiti at the beginning,” he says. While the artists are allowed to use the space for their event, graffiti in its purest form is illegal. Unsolicited markings and drawings on private or public property are considered a form of vandalism, so graffiti requires efficiency and a refined technique that allows artists to create complex stylized art in a timely manner without being caught. “When you paint certain places, you’re not necessarily destroying anything,” Albarez says. “You’re actually leaving artwork.” As a practice, graffiti is still in its relative infancy. In the 1970s, graffiti reached the New York City transit system when young people began spray painting the monikers they adopted onto the sides of subways sta- tions and trains, for their names to be seen by thousands each day. Graffiti soon took flight as “the written word of hip-hop,” according to Style Wars, a 1983 documentary on hip-hop culture. These names became infamous and sparked outrage among the public. Authori- ties responded by arresting artists, repainting trains, putting up barbed wire-topped fences and training German shepherds to ward off graffiti artists, according to the documentary. “A lot of people see graffiti as more of a nui- sance than an art form” says multi-disciplinary contemporary artist Jeremy Biggers. “Because of that, there is low-brow snubbing and people turning their nose up at the art form.” In Dallas, illegal graffiti is punishable of up to 180 days in jail and a $2,000 fine, ac- cording to the Dallas police website. By the ‘80s and ‘90s, graffiti crews be- came prominent. Camaraderie became cen- tral to graffiti artists. “Your crew becomes an extension of your family,” Albarez says. Albarez‘s practice spans 25 years. He and Biggers are a part of Dallas’ Urban Army Crew, which was founded in 1995 and in- cludes artists Hatziel Flores, Live, Twiz, Tercer, Trill, Snarf, Minqs, Brady and Mils. Their art can be found all over North Texas. “Graffiti crews are an amalgamation of people that have felt outcast, have felt un- heard, who felt they didn’t have a voice,” Biggers says. Biggers doesn’t consider himself a graffiti artist. His involvement with Urban Army Crew has afforded him an understanding of the graffiti culture. There is a language, eti- quette and hierarchy to which artists must adhere. Biggers respects it. “If you didn’t grow up in that culture, if you didn’t come up with that respect, then it’s very difficult to figure it [the culture] out on your own,” Biggers says. “There kind of has to be an apprenticeship, at first.” Talking with a graffiti artist requires an understanding of the lingo. Words like “tag,” “bomb,” “piece,” “throw-ups” or “throwies” and “productions” are a part of everyday language. They describe the type of work produced by an artist. ▼ Culture Mike Brooks Above: Contemporary artist Jeremy Biggers works on his graffiti at the event. Mike Brooks Mike Brooks >> p12 Artist Pilot adds highlights to his work. Graffiti artist Daze adds details to his design.
