Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 413(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
This morning, they’d studied incredible murals on their walk-through, the Maestrapeace mural on The Women’s Building, the Carnaval mural, plus all the street art along Balmy Alley and Clarion Alley. While not all of the murals they saw had been paid for, street art was still far from tagging. It was big business, and despite its transient nature, it had spawned mega street artists like Banksy, who was rumored to be worth millions, maybe even a billion, as well as rising stars like San Holo.
Clay wanted the same glory for Dylan. The kid was that good. But he had to put out some of the art he worked on in the studio.
Clay’s downtown warehouse, only blocks from where they stood, housed the studios of many of the amazing artists Clay had come across since art had taken over his world. He gave equal opportunity to painters, sculptors, mosaic layers, potters, jewelry makers, dancers, writers. His warehouse included all art forms.
Their meandering walk brought them to an alley beyond all the famous works. Dingy, dank, and slightly ripe as the morning sun rose in the sky, its walls were relatively tag-free.
Clay stood at the mouth of the alley. “How about trying something here?” He pointed to the left. “You could do something that takes up this entire wall.”
Dylan wrinkled his nose. “It stinks.”
“It can be cleaned up.” Clay could have a team on it within a couple of hours.
But again, Dylan shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Clay recognized the boy’s fear. He was fine tagging when it was totally anonymous and good working in the confines of his studio where he controlled the invitations to view his work. But out here, everyone would see it. Clay had witnessed that kind of fear firsthand back in university, when he’d roomed with one of his best friends, Gareth Tate. Gareth used to be a painter, but now served as Clay’s lawyer.
Clay said almost forcefully, “You don’t have to worry about being trashed. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Dylan looked at him, his head wagging on his narrow neck, his body otherwise immovable. “You can’t really stop that.”
But Clay assured him, “Yes, I can.”
That’s what his new video platform, Art Space, was all about, providing a safe place for artists where they were never demoralized by cruel or vicious comments. He had the power to make sure Dylan never suffered what his friend Gareth had.
He went back to Dylan’s earlier comment. “Once it’s sanitized, this is a good place to start.”
But still the kid repeated his refrain. “I don’t know.”
Clay walked into the alley despite its eau de garbage. Dylan followed more hesitantly. Until they both made out a mural at the end of the alley. Though slightly obscured by shadow, there was definitely a painting there. Street art. As he closed in on it, Clay saw materials on the ground beside it, spray paint cans, regular paint cans, even a stepladder to reach the uppermost parts of the mural.
Suddenly, Dylan overtook him, almost running. He stopped at the base of the mural, staring up as if he were looking at a religious icon.
“This is him.” Dylan’s voice dripped with awe, his gaze reverent.
“Who?”
“San Holo.” Dylan looked back at Clay. “It’s him. I know everything he’s done, and this is totally new.” The boy’s voice had taken on the worshipfulness of a postulant.
Clay stared with him. He knew about San Holo, the famous street artist Dylan always talked about. When the kid first mentioned the artist, his voice had been full of adulation. “San Holo is the best. This is what I want to do. I want to be just like him.”
Clay had immediately researched San Holo and studied his art. He’d talked to Cal Danniger, too, since he’d heard the story about Cal coming across San Holo’s early work in London. In fact, that was the trip where Cal had first met Clay’s brother Dane. Cal had spoken highly of the artist and owned several first edition prints.
San Holo, like Banksy, sold canvases of his murals and limited-edition prints. That was where the money came from. He also did commissions. But what made San Holo almost as famous as Banksy was right here in front of them. His street art.
Despite having studied the man’s art, Clay still had to ask, “Are you sure this is his work?”
The kid narrowed his eyes mutinously. “I know it.” He put a hand to his chest. “Don’t you feel its power?”
Dylan obviously wanted them to experience that power together, as he stepped away, hand on Clay’s arm, pulling him back to gaze up at the mural. Breathlessly, he said, “Isn’t it totally amazing? Everything he does is mind-blowing.” His voice dropped low to that reverent note.
Clay stared up at the painting. A ladder reaching all the way to the clouds was peopled with an array of climbers: a Native American woman, an Asian man, a Black man with a child’s hand in his as he helped her climb. A Black woman held out her hand to a white woman on the rungs below. People of all diverse cultures climbed into the clouds together.