NJ: Only the Strong Have Pride

Last night I had the pleasure of attending the Ted Leo and the Pharmacists show in Dublin. They're a band that I have listened to for quite some time, yes, even spanning back to those pop-punk encrusted days of high school (Billy Joe wears eyeliner now?). It was actually an advantage that my first Ted Leo show was far across the Atlantic, as the already tiny venue was only cozily filled with fans. With the attention he's been receiving stateside and the release of an album earlier this year though, I was still a bit surprised at the breathing room.

My New Jersey roots have gone into hiding lately, amid both the migration of many friends to Brooklyn and a recent stint in San Francisco. I have always been an avid fan of bands from my state, now a hotbed for emo and indie start-ups. I even will make the occasional trek to Albany if an aging Saves the Day hits the road when I'm at school. As I begin to contemplate a coast conversion post-college, however, the days of outspoken defense have passed. The turnpike is hideous and often smells foul? Yes. The cawffee in diners is overpriced? Sure. There's nothing exciting to do? Clearly, I have a blog for god's sakes.

Despite my best attempts at squashing attachment to my childhood home, there I was front and center, motioning to my friend over a brilliant bass solo that I planned on screaming, "I love New Jersey" at the next break. I was sure that Ted, a graduate of Seton Hall Prep in West Orange, NJ, would appreciate the support of a fellow statesmen. We're a very particular breed, afterall. I also raised my fist in triumphant recognition whenever 'Jersey' showed up in the lyrics, which last night came in at a solid 3. What was this adrenaline rush of state pride, my former shame lifted at the first pluck of a guitar string? This could not merely be the product of lead singer lust.

The set was cut rather short to make way for the venue's transfer back into a night club, which is really a shame if you've ever seen an Irishman dance. While my cries went unheard during the set, I stuck around long enough to catch the band as they packed up equipment, so determined was I in my will to represent. Looking up to the stage as he broke down a mic, I shouted "Ted" as though summoning an old friend, and his smile was no less unnatural.
"I'm from New Jersey!"
"Shut the fuck up!"
Insert excited high fives
"Come play back home, we're waiting for you"
"Ok!"

Yes, that was the extent of my meeting with Ted Leo, but boy is there still a smile on my face. Did I remember to tell him how great the set was? Or that as a long-time fan, I appreciated the small number of newer songs? Of course not. There is something about home that instills a certain pride in us, as though a person's accomplishments are felt more strongly by those who share that connection, however small (West Orange is a good 30 minute drive from my house). In a sea of foreigners, I danced in this pride, and was even more delighted to find Ted a modest, enthusiastic and very normal guy. Who knows whether my true Jersey girl will ever return without the cover of a blaring amp, but I made sure to come home last night and tell all those friends in Brooklyn about my NJ powwow with our state's very own Mr. Leo.

Banksy Cashes In

It's interesting, because when I imported this picture, my intention was merely to discuss the legalities that surround street art. It is actually one of a series of free postcards that they distribute in various cafes and restaurants around Dublin (and most of Europe, I presume). The images are all photographs of street art from around the world, so they have a location listed but not an artist. Banksy, arguably the most popular name in this genre, is one of the few who leaves a tag with his art, though his style is so distinct this is hardly necessary. None of the postcards feature his work.

My curiosity lies with the artist. The cards are circulated at no cost, so it can't really be said that the work has been stolen. The artist has chosen not to reveal their identity, but this does not leave the door open for profit. Who benefits from the collected books that feature these works, and should an artist be forced to surrender his or her anonymity to prevent such theft of integrity? The reclusive Banksy has begun to hold gallery openings and museum exhibits, both garnering loads of publicity and mula. Does this shift from brick wall to gallery hall change the nature of street art, stripping it of the raw quality that contributes to the genre's very name?

In a NYTimes article, the legality of street art hits the spotlight with a much different hue. "Splashers" have been destroying works in Brooklyn and DUMBO by dumping large blobs of paint on completed murals, in addition to administering lengthy manifestos on the 'gentrification' such art promotes. The notion that street art, a movement I applaud for its rejection of the sometimes restrictive nature of galleries, is in no way the 'bourgeoisie-sponsored rebellion' the Splashers claim it to be. However, the conflict does not escape the question that will plague street art's legal woes until the last brick in the wall meets a brush. What is art? By creating work in such public domain, can Splashers really be prevented from adding their blobs?

I will admit these questions stem from a very legal based perspective on the art, and in no way do I have any personal tolerance for such Splashers. Once an artist has set up shop on a wall, there is clearly an unspoken set of rules that will prevent the space from alteration by outside parties. If the owner of the wall, or at least the inside of it, states no qualms, is it really necessary for the splashers to destroy the free nature of the very art they are attempting to reclaim from bourgeoisie clutches? The trick then becomes the application of these unwritten codes into legal proceedings though, a process that will very much resemble the blobs poor street artists (and their supporters) love to hate.