New Art in Venice Beach

Vital Smashon

1. 
I sauntered over for a coffee at my favorite spot. As I approached from the side street I was shocked. There were splashes of color all over the mural of the artist, Ralph Ziman.

The face of the figure was totally marred; red paint streaming down as though the figure was bloodied. Blue splashes over red bursts and white explosions of paint that had leaked onto the concrete where shards of glass lay shimmering.  The culprit smashed paint filled bottles against the wall. Shocking! The original work behind the paint spatters was a wheatpaste; a giant photo copy fastened to the wall with home made glue. This is "street art" popularized by Sheppard Fairy, however Ralph Ziman, wasn't making fun pop culture references. His murals of gun toting terrorists are all over Venice right next to happy Buddhas and green women. Usually they consisted of armed mujahaddin-looking killers armed with automatic rifles. Ralph Ziman is South African. His dad is a apartheid era politican and according to Ralph, his art is about bringing awareness to the arms trade in South Africa. The pinwheel graphic design elements and added "technicolor" to the guns are visual queues that he says "disempower", the gun itself.  Seemed weird considering that at one time, not too long ago, Venice was plagued with gun violence.

"Hmm, kinda symbolic," I thought as the shock wore off.

And now someone or something had taken the liberty to apply a faux-Americana red, white and blue "f*** off" to Ralph.

Inspecting the wreckage I was approached by the local skinnies, kids who worked and skated in the area. I recognized some and suspected them immediately until I overheard their shock and dismay; they wanted to know who would do this.

There was a bit of a hub-bub about Ralph's intent; it was discussed somewhat heatedly at his opening at the CAVE gallery the week before. There were claims of racism, that the "artist" was a hack, a wannabe, an elitist, some rich legacy apartheid families wavering son. The discussion continued amongst those gathered. Was it some crazy ocean front dweller, or was it Ralph himself?  Maybe some disappointed artist lashed out, out of jealousy. Perhaps it was another artist who craves all the wall space for themselves.  Could it be that the perpetrator was rejected by CAVE? Our questioning roused us into a posse. We wanted to know; who did this, what does it mean.

2The next day, I headed to the coffee shop considering this specific meeting of art and crime. My musings were disturbed by the on rushing posse.

One of the more excitable ones cried out as he approached, "They fucked his other shit up!"
They rushed off to the site. I decided to take my time. I shied away from the posse for fear they would turn on me. Everyone was accusing each other it seemed. I had a cup of joe and sauntered over to Pacific.

On the way, I passed by a number of "tags"; on curbs, the backs of street signs, etched in glass.  I wondered if one of these very vandals has taken to filling empty bottles with paint and tossing them at the walls beautified by mural artists.
"Does envy propel graffiti?" I wondered.

On Pacific and Brooks, Ralph Ziman's gun toting African Terrorists had filled the corner for many months, untouched.  Now, it was destroyed. This was a "bomber", in the graffiti sense, but with a very literal take. "Bombing" is a graffiti term for painting stylized versions of one's tag. I realized he was now targeting Ralph specifically (like old school beef when one graffiti artist would "bomb" enemy pieces.) As I approached the site I notice black scribbles all over the "currency" Ralph Ziman had affixed to the short wall on the North West corner of Pacific and Brooks.

At first gaze it looked oddly similar to Arabic script. Ralph's work was left almost indecipherable. The "currency" he posted over the door of the building on the opposite corner had a streak of black splashed through it as well.

This paint did not appear to be the content of bottles smashed against the walls.
But one of the giant wheat-pastes had the distinct paint splash on them.

The figure was completely covered in red paint and intermittent blue. I noticed the telltale shards of glass dried in the gobs of paint. This made me think of all the meth heads a block or two away at the beach. Who did this? The other figure on the building had just a spritzing of bright, glowing blue.

"The blue splatters almost goes with this piece, accentuating it in a strange way." I mused.
I thought of phosphoresence. I noticed a splash of red paint and a splash of white on the sidewalk next to the piece.

"Hmm, bounced off?"

Ah, it was plywood that these wheat-pastes were placed on. I felt like a detective. The boards covered what must of been the previous storefronts windows. I thought of the gentrification of Venice and of "broken windows" in economics. I was jarred that I felt an appreciation for this destruction; jarred that it prompted many interesting trains of thought. It even seemed to answer some questions about Ralph's piece.

The presence of the guns in his pieces were very unclear to me and to everyone I spoke to in Venice. Ralph gave me no sufficient answer to why he posted his Abbot Kinney mural days after the Santa Monica School Shooting.  He really seemed to just be trying to market his  work by using guns. Perhaps by smashing a "Molotov" paint bomb on his pretty pictures of heavily armed men the vandal was attempting to subject the passerby to a violent act against an image ambivalent about it's violence. Also of interest was the fact that there wasn't a bit of white on any of these walls. Was that on purpose? Did the culprit cast the white and red bottles on the sidewalk on purpose as some reference to blood and race or something? Did they miss the mark? Did he cast the bottles from a car? Was it a personal vendetta? Did Ralph refuse someone spare change; did he refuse the wrong person? Was I giving the perpetrator too much credit by musing like this? Or too little credit? Was the smasher possibly politically minded or at least politically aware? Was he like a Situationalist?

My revelry was interrupted by oncoming members of the posse. In their company were a few I didn't recognize.

"This sh** is bananas!"

Was he the vandal? Was I just a paranoid self-proclaimed detective? I left Pacific and Brooks. As I walked away I heard:

"Maybe it's that weird albino dude who hangs out at Pier 212 who set.."

"Jeez" I thought."Venice is such an odd, wild anomaly; tame and lazy and frantic and desperate with nothing going on and then a chopper flying over head and traffic and crowds everywhere. Venice is like the tide; it s got an ebb and flow. Its just not predictable. Venice, where everyone washes up; where the debris meets the sea. Who the hell is the wash up, the castaway who's throwing bottle full s of paint at this guys wheat-pastes? Is the CAVE gallery next I wondered?"

3I was to meet the blog editor for coffee. He texted me; something came up. Now he wanted to meet at 2 at the side patio of Lemonade. It was three in the afternoon so I texted back, 2 AM? I wasn't in the habit of questioning him, but such a time and place to meet struck me as very odd. He responded that he wanted to drink and that he should be done by that time. Hmm, weird, I thought; he didn't strike me as much of a drinker. Man I felt shady lurking around those parts in the dark. There was hardly anyone around. But cars passed and it was a beautiful, temperate night.  After a few minutes waiting I began to pace, dreading the prospects of dealing with this dude, drunk.

"I don't like drunk people." I thought.

A guy up the block on Venice Blvd caught my eye. He was also lurking and pacing. He had a satchel bag over his shoulder and his hands were buried in it. I wondered if he saw me. I couldn't determine which was his front and which his back. I wondered if he was drunk. He had something covering his face. Weird, it's not that cold. He looked at the intersection of Venice and Abbot Kinney and then back at the building. I forgot what I was doing and watched. There were no cars passing. His hand came out of his satchel bag rapidly like a cowboy drawing his pistol and a bottle smashed against the white brick wall of the building where Vice recently opened up offices. And then he immediately repeated the rapid motion; another smash rung out in the night air. I ran over toward him and then another smash and then another, as I neared. The perpetrator started running. I looked at the splatter on the white brick wall as I heard a door slam open.
Someone shouted "Hey! what the fuck!"

 I ran in the direction of the vandal, afraid that Id be arrested. I ran along a fence headed for the intersection of Electric and Venice. When the fence ended I flew through the air to my right and fell to the gravelly dirt. I was pushed. And then hustled up and shoved along the sidewalk toward Shell Avenue.

"Man, I'm sorry if I hurt you. But, what are you doin dude?.. "

The masked figure accused me. He didn't sound upset though. I was astounded; my editor totally set me up. Do you know so and so I asked. He didn't answer.

"Come with me" he said.
"I wanted to know," I thought. "I guess this is what I get."
"It's a pretty nice nite, eh." He says.
Small talk, weird, I think. "Ya."
"So what do u want to know." he asks
So u know so and so, I again question him.
"I'm a painter." he declares. "We re goin on a mission." he continues.
"We re already on it." I offered
That comment put us at ease. I had no time to process how I felt about the incident at the Vice building. It was definitely gurilla style, violent. I didnt get too much of a chance to look at it but it was definitely a large splatter on the wall.
"I'm Smashon, Vital Smashon; get it on n on n on" he stated rather audibly in a sing song fashion.

He stuck out his right elbow to bump mine. I obliged him. His hands must be covered with paint, I thought. We cut down a walk path from the circle at Shell Avenue and made our way through the Electric lodge parking lot, and over to the bushes on the California side of the Vera Davis community center. Odd I thought, some of the posse thought maybe the culprit dwelt here. Recently there had been homeless folks in the bushes, under the trees, in buses and vans; some of them were painters. Smashon, who corrected me and told me he prefered this to Vital, informed me his life was "smashing, smashing and then crashing and now was time for splashing." His poeticizing was seemingly involuntary. While telling me this he dragged a bulging bright blue shirt out of the bush. He untied the sleeve; the shirt was full of empty bottles.

"Emptying bottles is the message with which they re filled." he informed me.

He then took three separate gallon cans of Behr house paint out from under the other side of the bush. He took a water bottle out of his satchel, poured some water in each of the bottles. He proceeded to pour paint into each bottle, several from each of the gallon cans. There was black, pink and blue.

"Boys n' girls can only get along when they shut off the light n get it on."

I really could not tell if his poeticizing was serious. I didn't react. He didn't look up from his work. Smashon's face was masked in a form fitting black Lycra. I wondered how well he could see through it. He was skillfully pouring the paint so I assumed the mask allowed for good visibility. He didn't seem drunk. He didn't talk that much. Nor did I, I tried to question him. He wouldn't answer. So I just waited to hear what he would say. He ripped parts of the shirts and stuffed them in the mouths of the bottles. Wow, just like I though; Molotov paint bombs.

"Follow me" he didn't whisper.

He packed up his bottles in his satchel seemingly putting them in some sort of order.
"I'm leaving that paint for the next guy; that's how we fly, you know painters of the same feather flock together."

He left the three paint cans with lids off in the grass of the community center. Others slept nearby, otherwise we saw no one. We walked and barely talked. He said we were going to Lincoln. We walked north on Seventh ave though. I found his name amusing. I really didn't know what to make of him. I couldn't decide if his eccentricities were affectations. He told me thus was his way of "getting up" which is graffiti lingo for painting. And also that his style was  the wave of the future. He said people are sick of reading and these paint splatters make more sense and for him they re more fulfilling.

We came to Rose Avenue.
"Awe dude, I wanna get hyped on some coffee." He turned left and headed for groundworks.

I followed after wondering if he knew the coffee shop was closed. Smash-On jogged ahead of me past the door, past the building and turned around reaching in his satchel. He lobbed three bombs at the billboard on the side of the Groundworks building. The sound upon impact was more of an echoing thud than a smash. I jogged up and saw the last two bottles bounce off the billboard and heard them smash in the parking lot below.

"Man this guy's a menace." I thought, dismayed.

We turned the corner from Rose headed toward Santa Monica.

"I hate that heart shaped shit on that billboard." he snarled with uncharacteristic vehemence.
He went onto explain that the American Apparel billboard was "hit" twice by different "street artists."

"Stencils, wheat-pastes, even decompressed fire extinguishers, they're all passé, whether night or day.. Get down with the Smash-On" he informed me.

Heading toward Santa Monica we trod on through a park and finally cut over toward Lincoln Blvd.

"I feel like this needs to be done. Like, I'm adding something to these works, like they're asking for it."
"Well thanks for having me come along with you, man."

"My pleasure.. The splash of Vital Smash-On... my treasure offering to the world, the whirlwind."
He ran ahead and said "After this don't follow me."

He stopped in the midst of the parking lot and lunged bottles at the wall of a newly opened gym. The wall was decorated with ubiquitous positive words; love, gratitude, etc. The pink paint splashed off the wall splattering on the sidewalk, spraying out into Lincoln blvd.; the blue paint splashed onto the gutter in the midst of the wall. Paint dripped down the silhouette figure in the center at the bottom of the picture. It was funny to me; Smash-On made it rain. Uht-oh, I just realized I sympathize with this guy a little. Odd to find oneself in collusion with a criminal, even if it is petty art crimes. I guess Vital Smash-On just got his splash on, in Venice where art meets crime.

The author, is an artist in Venice.

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